Monster in my Head
by Fayth85
Summary: "It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."
1. V1:C1—Signalling DeWitt

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume One, Chapter One—Signalling DeWitt**_

_**8-8**_

* * *

The computer screen blinks, updating the progress. Not that I have any clue what it's supposed to mean. It's all bars and numbers and colours and Os and Vs. Ah, right there at the bottom. Progress Assessment for one I. DeWitt, Signal senior.

"What the hell am I looking at?" I ask, sounding almost desperate to have answers.

The blonde seated in front of the computer swivels her chair, her reading glasses glaring up at me with a vengeance, not even noticing the fifteen other students in the computer lab around us or dust covering the otherwise pristine white desk where she lays her arm as she crosses her legs. "How are we friends again?"

"Because I make you look smart?" I give her a rakish grin, knowing it's going to grate on her.

Annoyed blue eyes narrow as her middle finger rights her glasses and pouty lips curl down into a frown. "This is your school profile. The thing you should know inside out, seeing as you've been studying here for the last four years."

"So. It's my report card?" The little vein between her eyebrows throbs, looking about ready to burst. I smirk, my violet eyes lit up with amusement. "Is it really important?"

"Is it…?" Her eyes widen, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. From wide to narrow, she zooms her crosshairs onto me, scowling like I just peed on her favourite shoes or something. "This is your progress report. And you have less than a week to take all those little circles. You know, like the letter O. And check them off. You know, like those little Vs there?"

I take out my scroll and press the white spiral in the middle to unlock it; the upper grip jerks up, and the panel blinks to life showing my home screen. I click my student app and load the same screen, only in the format I actually fucking monitor.

Clicking to filter out all passed classes, I see only sniping with Professor Branwen and my final practical with Professor Xiao Long. "What's got your panties in a bunch? I've got like two tests and they're scheduled for today."

Tiff storms up to her feet, lightning crackling from her golden locks and arcing between her eyes. With balled fists and a nasty scowl, she grabs my uniform's collar and really gets in my face about it. "You lazy ass! That's only if you want to…"

"Yes, Tiff?" I smile. "Only if I want to…what?"

The arcing dials back, the static that probably has my silver buzz cut spikier than ever eases. Tiff shakes her head, groaning through clenched teeth. "You're impossible. You know that."

"Aw, come on. Don't be like that. Tell me. What am I trying to do?"

She waves her hand and the computer blinks back to the user log-in screen. "I'm going to have a front row seat. **When.** This blows up in your face." And like that, she storms out.

Always so easy to rile up.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Walking along the hallway, filled to the brim with giggling and gossiping as all the cute girls keep gushing about some guy or other. Sigh. Whatever. The puke green linoleum flooring is just as much an eyesore now as it was the day I arrived, not that the fire engine red lockers or the otherwise peach walls and sunflower yellow doors are any better. It looks like the decorator drank paint samples and retched on the blueprints.

I stop at my locker and dial in my forty-digit access code. Per the norm, some idiots over to one side gawk as my fingers dance over the keypad so fast their eyes can't quite figure out what keys I'm actually hitting.

**"Welcome."** The monotone and clearly mechanical voiced greeting is about as welcoming as a fiery welcome mat or spikes where the doorbell should be. Just the way I like it. But it's how the door doesn't click open that I like most.

I phase my hand through the metal and grab my combat bag, phasing that through to my side and slinging it over my shoulder. Those idiots spent the last years of their lives trying to figure out why I bother with the code that they can't figure out the purpose for. Heh.

"Hey, bra." An arm drapes over my shoulder. Hairy as all hell, per the norm. But the stink is new, and it has me blocking my nose to tone it down.

"Dude. You _so_ need a bath." I shove Wenge off me, not needing that kind of crap just before my exams.

"I know, right. Man, Branwen was a total beast." Wenge's shaggy brown fur looks all kinds of matted, but I'm honestly not sure if Faunus are capable of sweating—never thought to ask, but it neither adds nor subtracts, so fuck it. "You best be on your toes, bra. I'm tellin' you. He's out for blood."

"This is…It's all so sudden." I pretend to blush, cupping my cheeks as if to hide it. He cocks an eyebrow, his ursine face not hiding a shred of his curiosity. "You do love me."

Wenge baulks, disgusted from the very thought. "You've been hanging out with Tulip again."

I chuckle, but don't comment. "Gonna be late. We hooking up later for drinks?"

"O' course! First round's on you, twinkle toes."

**_8-8_**

* * *

The firing range. It's a lot longer than I remember, for some reason. And I don't remember there being quite so many trees. Or shrubs. Or uprooted trees. Or trees broken in half. Strange. I've trained here more than anywhere else, but it's like I walked into a totally different training hall.

"The hell am I even looking at." The words flop off my tongue.

"Ivory!" I snap to attention, my spine ramrod straight. What is it with Branwen? He's always so fucking strict on me! "That's not the kind of language we tolerate from our students. Let alone a young lady like yourself."

Groan. "You'd think me walking around in a skirt for the last four years would have tipped me off, right?"

Branwen shakes his head and loosens his red tie. Dunno what's up with that. Never did understand the stupid uniforms around here. I mean, all school uniforms look more or less alike, but it's a combat academy! Why stick the girls in fucking skirts? Someone must have a pantyshot fetish or something.

"You're here for your sniper's exam." Branwen upends his little canteen, obviously needing a drink just now. How he hasn't been fired in my time here, I dunno. But I can't deny the man is good at what he does. "You need to locate six targets and take 'em out. But. You can't move from this spot." He points down, as if to accentuate his words. "Go."

I roll my eyes and drop my bag, unzipping and exposing the contents. "It'd be nice if just once you give me a second to gear up first."

"You should have walked in armed to the teeth. What would you do if you were attacked?" I roll my eyes. "Don't give me that. We both know you're applying to Beacon."

I grab Sun, still sheathed, and my holstered Moon, muttering under my breath as I go. "If I walk in here armed, I get scolded for being armed outside of training." I wrap my sash around my waist, nice and snug, and stuff my sword in there. "If I walk in here unarmed, I get scolded for not being ready." I ditch the brown jacket and slip my arms into my shoulder holster, making sure to stuff the empty pouch on my right side with magazines, each marked with a different colour. "That's fair."

"Hey, I don't make the rules."

I take out my pistol and fire off six rounds in quick succession. The tree vibrates with the power of each shot, but the targets hanging from its branches don't seem to care. Oh, really? Clicking out my magazine, I toss it into my bag, trade it for the red one from my pouch, pull back the slider, catch the errant cartridge which gets tossed into my bag, and aim again.

I squeeze the trigger. The target explodes in a huff of fire, taking all six down in one go. "Hmm." I grin.

"Don't look so pleased. I said sniper exam." Instead of the targets barely twenty metres from us, a speck on the edge of the long ass training hall draws my attention. "Sniper. As in long-range firing. Try again."

I groan and mutter about distractions under my breath.

"At what point in your sniper training did you fire at something so close?"

"It's called power calibration. This way I know the power requirement so I don't waste time wondering if my shots hit or not. You know, like you keep telling me?" I shake my head, holstering my pistol and twisting the little dial on my sword handle as I pull it out of my sash. It clicks out into her snake sword form and extends a few metres, the sheath clicks and slides before jerking back into her rifle form as I snap her to my shoulder, ready for action. The lens caps click up and the little dots are magnified. I fish out another magazine and stuff her into Sun's butt.

A little squeeze.

The target explodes into an inferno, taking all his little buddies with him. Just the way I like my marks.

Branwen sighs, shaking his head. "You need to expand your repertoire. Don't just work with fire dust, it'll make you predictable."

I smirk, clicking out the magazine and slapping in the mag marked with a rainbow. I squeeze, and another inferno. I squeeze, freezing the ashes of the target. I squeeze, the ice turns to stone.

Click out the mag and switch it for the cyan marked one. Fire, and the stone is covered in steam. This time, I wait for a second, to let the steam dissipate to show the stone completely unharmed. And I fire. A laser-like focused blast pierces the rock clean through, cracking it and tumbling pieces down into the treeline below.

I engage the safety and click Sun back into her sword form and sheathing her before stuffing her back into my sash. I make sure to keep my hand on Sun's grip, though. "You were saying?"

"Heh." Branwen smirks. I spin, kicking Professor Xiao Long before he slams into me. He grabs me by the shin, of course, but we both know I predicted he'd be there. "Well, Tai. She's all yours." Trading a fun brunet for a dull blond—what's the world coming to.

"Ivory." Xiao Long nods to me.

My leg phases through his grip and I back off to put some room between us. "Professor."

"Three rounds. Tap-spar rules." I smirk. There's always less guesswork in dealing with Xiao Long. "Seeing as this is your final exam. No kiddie gloves. I need to see your full potential."

"At what point in my training did you ever allow kiddie gloves?" Xiao Long smirks—hell, Branwen isn't doing much better, chuckling as he saunters off. "So we're clear. I pass this last test, and I'm allowed to be armed at all times? Even on premises?"

The professor cocks an eyebrow, no doubt wondering why I think I can distract him. This is gonna suck.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Wenge glares at me. Or is that a sneer? A grumpy pouty-glower? So many crystals and weapons magazines on display—hell, even the fridge with the see-through door is more interesting than me. Ignoring him I walk right over to the counter in the centre of the store, to the kindly old man smiling and nodding to show I have his attention.

"Afternoon. Need empty canisters for dust and a hard-light crystal." He motions around to one side, away from the burgundy and azure crystals that are no doubt the more popular to discuss. They're useful, don't get me wrong, but hard-light is armour penetration, or can be used that way, and that's what my Sun needs.

There are six on display, four of which are so tiny they could probably be used as earring gems. The one is so big it makes my head look small. I point to the second biggest. He nods and takes it out.

"Don't freak, I just need a size comparison." I unsheathe Sun and hold the grip beside the crystal, with the blade pointing away from him. The crystal is just slightly too large—perfect for what I need, since I risk material loss in cutting. Satisfied, I sheathe Sun, and nod. "I'll take it."

He nods and sets the crystal back for now. He motions me over to the back of the little box of displays he surrounds himself with. There are dozens of canisters for dust storage, all cylindrical. Some longer and thicker than my forearm, some looking more like my index finger.

"A shame you weren't here last month. It was half-off on support items." Sigh. Well, can't be helped. "We still have some secure briefcases in stock, if you're interested? For safe storage, you understand. Dust is…volatile."

Hmm. If I get accepted into Beacon, it means moving into new dorms, and that means a new game of roulette who I'm stuck with. That might mean my roommates are less pliable or respecting of my little dust experiments. "Got any with secure locks?"

The old man nods, no doubt pleased with an easy sale. With that handled, I pick up a few dozen boxes of cartridge cases and select a few canisters to get my own collection of dust—it's not like Signal will let me take a healthy stock now that I'm officially graduated.

Sigh.

"Ma says I better not show up without you." Wenge nudges me with his elbow, still hammering away at his scroll; no doubt texting his reply. "Says she's icing the cake."

A dry chuckle jumps up from nowhere, as I take six of the largest canisters, with two finger-sized vials, and head over to the dust receptacles. Hmm. I fill the two small ones with cyan—armour piercing is always useful, but frankly one of these little ones with cyan is as expensive as the larger ones with ice. Five of the larger ones are filled with primary dusts—fire, wind, water, lightning, earth, and gravity. The last gets filled with ice, since I tend to work most with it, and this way I won't have to mix it myself.

"Hey?" I look to Wenge, cocking an eyebrow. "Hook me up on some rounds?"

"Duh?" He chuckles, elbowing me just because he can. "You finally gonna let me revamp your baseball bat?" Annoyed grumbling is all I get. Satisfied the last canister is properly full, I mark it with the dust colour so I know what's in it and set it on the counter to be tallied, and I grab another box of cartridge cases, only not the ten-mil or .444 calibres I work with. No, Wenge needs his hundred-mil—the box comes with fifty, so that should be plenty.

Setting the last of it on the counter, the old man cocks an eyebrow. "I have no issue selling to Faunus. So if the young man desires anything…?"

Wenge chuckles, his eyes lit up with amusement. "Alright. You got some ice crystals for me?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

Wenge pops out a single claw, cutting the hard-light crystal along the lines he marked. The cyan crystal is carefully whittled down to the shape and size I need, the dozens of little scrapings and smaller cuts bunching on the white A4-sized cutting board as he works.

The dingy main room is cramped, with barely enough room for the tiny four-person square table and a two-seater couch. The tiny tv hung on the wall shows the usual talking heads discussing the latest news, with Mr Bruin sipping his beer as he berates the idiots for getting everything wrong—I haven't listened to a word of it, but I enjoy his running commentary all the same.

Tawny is curled up in her daddy's lap, her ursine ear pressed to his chest as she sleeps. Mrs Bruin, for her part is over in the kitchenette, washing the dishes with her back to us.

A clicking sound rings out as I snap the hundred-mil cartridge into Wenge's magazine, and mark it with an earthen brown sticker. Fucking drum mag is tall as Wenge's forearm and just as thick, but with the man himself almost double my height and so massive he makes me look like a toddler beside him? It fits.

One brown, one yellow, three red, one black. He has two more empty mags, though. Hmm. "You need more ice mags?"

"Couldn't hurt," Wenge murmurs, sticking out his foot-long pink tongue to one side as he works. My shoulders shiver as I grab my ice canister. "Buckshot please."

Mrs Bruin brings me a tall glass with fresh ice tea and the shallow bowls for the pellets I'll need to form. She kisses my crown and heads right back to drying the dishes.

A quick sip of the sweet, peach-flavoured heaven, I pour out the ice dust into the first bowl and dip my now moist hand into it. Little pea-sized pellets roll between my fingers and set in the empty bowl for later.

"There." Wenge holds up the cut crystal to the naked bulb overhead. "Whoo. Ain't you a beaut."

"Hey, baby bear?" I smirk, amused with the annoyed glare he fixes me with. I stick out my tongue, showing off my silver barbell tongue piercing. "Hook me up?" His eyes light up, the irritation long forgotten as he scratches his jawline.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The ship glides through the air like nothing's the matter. Wenge and I gaze out over Vale, at the tiny little buildings that usually seem so tall. My tongue piercing rubs against the roof of my mouth, the ice crystal so smooth it's hard to tell it was once jagged. Lucky me, he knows what he's doing. There's no way I'd put two crystals in my mouth otherwise.

"Stop playing with it." Wenge gets on my case. I roll my eyes, and get back to city-watching. And just to annoy him, I rub the bottom half against the roof of my mouth—the hard-light crystal somehow feeling even smoother. He shakes his head, no doubt knowing just what I'm doing.

**"The robbery was led by the notorious criminal Roman Torchwick, who continues to evade authorities. If you have any information on his whereabouts, please contact the Vale Police Department. Back to you, Lisa."**

Wenge and I share an annoyed look. There's no way they won't bring up the dumpster fire of a protest.

**"…The once peaceful organization…" **

"Drinks are on me." Wenge snorts, amused. The one bet I always fucking lose but keep making. It makes sense, though. His people are still treated like shit, so this is something I can do.

A soft whirr, and the hologram turns to some chick. **"Hello and welcome to Beacon."** The murmuring starts up, as people start the guessing game who that is. She looks like a total dominatrix with her devil's forked-tail cape and her curly blond hair, standing at attention. And those green eyes—I think I'm gonna melt. **"My name is Glynda Goodwitch."** And I've been a bad girl.

Wenge elbows me; I smirk—we both know what I'd happily let Goodwitch do to me.

**"You are among a privileged few who've received the honour of being selected to attend this prestigious academy."** Would she enjoy me in a naughty schoolgirl uniform? Hmm. Maybe she prefers the naughty nurse. **"Our world is experiencing an incredible time of peace and as future hunters and huntresses, it is your duty to uphold it."**

Aw man. She sounds way less bawdy than I hoped. Then again, good girl could be her public persona, and I might well be the switch that flips her into full-on strap-on mode. I shiver at the thought.

**"You have demonstrated the courage needed for such a task, and now it is our turn to provide you with the knowledge and the training needed to protect our world."** The image fades, but not from my mind. I'll be using that for naughty time later.

"You're too much. You know that?" A rakish grin is all he gets outta me.

Some blond ass pukes up a lung, getting some right on Xiao Long's shoe. Wenge and I share a look; I bite my lip, trying not to laugh, and the way he covers his mouth isn't helping. The mirth in his eyes is a dead giveaway he won't be getting on my case for this.

This'll be fun.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The ship finally docks. We escape the iron beast, and out into the enchanted kingdom styled campus we'll be calling home for the coming years. The place is simply gorgeous. Between the trimmed gardens and the smooth stone walkways and the beautiful tower that looks like it was ripped straight from a fairy tale…

Wenge and I stroll along, right up to what looks like the palace grounds, and into the main keep. A large enclosure on the ground floor, with rows of seats up on the upper floor, with a glass railing, for some reason. It's huge, no two ways about it. Like a ballroom, if sparsely decorated and with a stage against the far wall with a microphone and not much else. Bare walls just aren't attractive, but the minimalist style somehow draws even more attention to the beauty we left outside. As if they mean to say they've no reason to brag, knowing they just are a well-kept academy.

Some pretty-boy keeps puffing up his chest like a peacock splaying his feathers—Wenge gives him a once over, but shrugs and scouts the crowd for higher quality eye-candy. I don't blame him, that one'd never be any good for him. Not that he's ever been into humans, but still.

There are a few Faunus about the place. One with rabbit ears, another with a lizard's tail. They don't flock, so there's hope this place is more accepting of them. I elbow Wenge, spying a buff one with floppy dog ears leaning against the wall and buffing his shield.

The appreciative once-over hints Wenge isn't writing that one off, but that he isn't walking over hints he isn't sold they bat for the same team. My gaydar is fine-tuned with guys—it's girls that are impossible to read. I tug on his arm. When he leans in I murmur, "Worst case, you make a friend?"

He makes a face, not disagreeing with my logic, but he doesn't make a move all the same. Well, I tried.

There are plenty of cute girls. Some haughty ones, too. Like Schnee over there, with her prima ballerina outfit—not a bad choice, per se, but it makes her look more like a doll than a functional person. Hmm, what's-her-face is here as well; miss cereal model. Definitely the right combination of strength and looks, and she even looks down to earth. Shame she's outta my league.

Xiao Long is looking around for Rose, no doubt having ditched her the second she spotted her friends—damn, a known straight-as-an-arrow chick, but I'd marry her the second she even considers it an option.

There's another really cute chick in a pink dress with a blue jacket, but she's all but fawning over the quiet guy beside her. He patiently smiles, so I think he knows. Either they're a couple or they will be.

Ooh, Ms Bunny-ears looks all kinds of adorable. The shy type, which is a shame, but not a deal-breaker.

A brunette with a bow covering her cat ears. Faunus without fail, and all kinds of beautiful. Her outfit is a bit on the skimpy side, which I'm most definitely not complaining about, but the aloofness in her eyes almost hurts to look at. She's been burned one time too many, and burned bad from the look of it. Wait, isn't that Belladonna? She's practically royalty among the Faunus.

Girls are in the minority, which isn't surprising given this is a hunter's academy. Hmm. Now how the hell do I find out which of them swim upstream?

**_8-8_**

* * *

The soft whingeing of the microphone announces it's about to start. Took them long enough. "I'll. Keep this brief." Professor Ozpin looks about as I expected. Tall, willowy, and seems to like his walking cane. But it's Goodwitch that gets my attention, standing there looking dispassionately at everyone.

"You've travelled here today in search of knowledge. To hone your craft and acquire new skills. And when you have finished, you plan to dedicate your life to the protection of the people. But I look amongst you and all I see is wasted energy in need of purpose, direction." You're not much of a motivational speaker, are you. "You assume knowledge will free you of this. But your time at this school will prove that knowledge can only carry you so far. It is up to you to take the first step."

"Well, I'm pumped," I intone, giving Wenge an eye roll. He chuckles, not commenting on it.

Ozpin walks off, and Goodwitch steps up to the mic. "You will gather in the barn tonight. Tomorrow, your initiating begins. Be ready. You are dismissed."

"We're sleeping in a barn?" Wenge asks, giving me a side-glance. I shrug, unable to make any more sense of it than him. "What, like co-ed?"

We share a look, annoyed. Sex-segregation is just so much more efficient for us.

**_8-8_**

* * *

We're seriously all in one room together. All of us. Well, Wenge has my back, so there's nothing for me to worry about. It's the idiots that keep looking my way, flexing their pyjama-clad muscles, trying to draw my attention—not only are they giving Wenge quite the show, but they aren't even impressing him with it.

Still, it's cosy. I guess. Lots of unlit chandeliers overhead; I'm confused why none of the red velvety curtains are drawn, but the view of the twinkling stars is nice enough.

"It's nice," Wenge says, staring up at the ceiling from his sleeping bag. "We even got lockers next to each other."

I nod, flopping onto my sleeping bag beside his and hugging my pillow. "So initiation, huh."

"They'll pit us against wild grimm." Probably. "Hey, you think we'll be on the same team?"

I snort. "We better. You're the only one that keeps me in line." He chuckles, quite proud of the feat himself. "Statistically, we'll end up on a team with two other guys."

"Sucks to be you." We share a look—he's grinning like a complete maniac and gets my pillow to the face for it. That only makes him laugh harder, the idiot.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Beacon cliff. Name says a lot, really. It's a cliff, overlooking dense woodland, near Beacon. Given we're told to stand on these little mechanical-looking squares, I'm guessing we're gonna be catapulted into the fray. Wenge and I share a look, a smirk.

"For years," Ozpin says, holding the same mug as yesterday, "you have trained to become warriors and today your abilities will be evaluated in the Emerald Forest." What is it with Ozpin and that mug? Is it his prop? Does he love coffee that much—does he need it that much?

"Now." Goodwitch gets in on the 'fun'. "I'm sure many of you have heard the rumours about the assignment of teams. Well. Allow us to put an end to your confusion. Each of you will be given teammates. Today." Ohs noes. There be teammates in them there forest.

"These teammates," and back to Ozpin, "will be with you for the rest of your time here at Beacon." Oh, tag-teaming us, huh. Well. At least they work well together. "So it is your interests to be paired with someone with whom you can work well." That's an awkward way to word it. At least I know it isn't scripted. "That being said. The first person you make eye contact with after landing will be your partner for the next four years."

Wenge and I share a look, grinning as we bump fists. There's no way we're passing this up.

"After you've partnered up, make your way to the northern end of the forest. You will meet opposition along the way." Grimm. We roll our eyes, having figured as much. "Do not hesitate to destroy everything in your path. Or you will die."

Wenge chuckles and rolls his shoulders, looking forward to strutting his stuff.

"You will be monitored for the duration of your initiation. But our instructors will not intervene. You will find an abandoned temple at the end of the path containing several relics. Each pair must choose one and return to the top of the cliff." Sounds too simple. That means they have a fuckton of grimm down there. "You will guard that item, as well as your standing, and grade you appropriately. Are there any questions?"

"Yeah, um. Sir?" Pukey raises his hand, on the other end of the lineup from Wenge and me.

"Good. Now, take your positions." Wenge chuckles, quite enjoying the utter lack of favouritism going on.

"I'm furthest to his right, so they'll launch me first. I'll stay airborne long as I can. You piggyback, and I break our fall." I nod, agreeing with the plan.

"I got dibs on choosing our relic." He chuckles, readying himself for take-off with his two-metre studded club still strapped to his back. I take a stance as well. Sun is still sheathed in my sash, and Moon holstered. Hmm. The sun might get in my eye, and I don't have any shades.

My hoodie is pulled up and I grip Sun, just to make sure she doesn't get any funny ideas.

Without warning, Wenge is flung up into a shallow arc. I'm launched not a second after him. I unsheathe Sun and click her into snake form, lashing out and wrapping her around Wenge's waist. With a yank, I'm pulled towards him—like I'm massive enough to pull him towards me, bulky as he is.

I slam into his back, but he barely seems to notice. Sun clicks back into sword form and I sheathe her, taking out Moon and I just wait, clutching my Wenge and wrapping my legs under his armpits and over his shoulders with one arm looped through his waist-pouch and riding his club like a witch on a broom. There's a less than zero percent chance he'll let me get injured like this, so what do I care?

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter One_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Seriously, guys. Someone needs to tell my muse to chill the fuck out. I have enough stories going on, and this is just one of many that won't leave me alone until I write it TT_TT  
_**

**_Anyhoo. Don't expect this to be updated too regularly. It's fun to write, but I have other stories that I need to finish before actually starting this one. And I only have the first volume ready for posting...so, yeah. Let me know what you guys think all the same._**


	2. V1:C2—Forests and Trees

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume One, Chapter Two—Forests and Trees**_

_**8-8**_

* * *

Wenge crashes through branches and trunks like they're paper and almost slams into the ground. Widdle ol' me? The world quakes something fierce, but he holds on so I don't fall or hurt myself. Hell, I don't even lose my left-handed grip on Moon. That might have to do with his aura wrapped around me like a cloak—I didn't even have to activate mine.

"Clear," he mumbles. I parrot and he loosens his grip, letting me slip down and flip onto my feet. Not much to see, really; brown trunks and branches, with some green new-growths of spring, and a whole lot of green. Can't even see the sky through the foliage. He sniffs. "Grimm. Ursa minors."

"How you wanna do this?" I ask and sniff, but don't smell them yet. Fuckers stink to high heaven, all grimm do. Shame I can't identify the specific stink like he can. "I take the icing you take the cake?"

"You love swatting the flies," he says and chuckles, looking around as he loosens his strap and wields his Fluffy Bunny one-handed. "He said north?" I nod, keeping Moon ready for the trouble we know is coming. He leads, watching front and setting an easy pace. I keep our rear flank in check as we go.

"Ma's bugging me 'bout marrying you again."

I snort, shaking my head. "That's incest." He chuckles, not disagreeing. Twigs snap, younger branches bend and rub their leaves against us to trade scent markings, a whole lot of signs of our trail are left behind as we make our way. Even if the grimm don't know exactly where we are, they'll find us soon enough.

Leaves are browning, showing autumn is upon is, not that the heat of summer has eased much. Still, the nights are cooling. It's almost ten minutes before the stench hits me. Like sweaty gym socks and diarrhoea had a baby. And it's coming from all round us.

"I hate that you taught me that." Ignoring the chuckling, we just keep on walking along, if avoiding shrubs best we can. Trunks are so thick here that it's all too easy for them to hide behind them, but that only helps so much. That I still can't see them shows they know something about either camouflage or stealth tactics.

I activate my aura, knowing these fuckers are just hiding in the wing, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

"What you think, bra?" he asks, giving me the heads up it's about to go down. Not that it wasn't already obvious, but it's nice that he cares. "'Bout a dozen. Could be interesting?" Mag slides out, confirming this is a reg-mag—little point in starting with a dust-round, if a reg-round gets the job done—before slamming it right back in and safety clicks off. Never shot one of these.

"Power calibration?" As the words leave my mouth, red eyes glare from within a shrub, another two pairs from either side of one of the thicker trunks.

"Fair," he says. "Even split?" Four on my side, so that doesn't sound efficient. The first of them comes fully into view. Large. Wenge-size kind of large, if walking slightly hunched forward. All black save the white skull on head, with bone growths from its spine, and blood red eyes. Might have claws, but fangs are…yeah, bone white fangs, I assume its lips are taut against its gums, but no way to know for sure. No noticeable tongue, at least not just now.

"Meh?" The growling starts. A guttural, bestial sound. Never faced an actual grimm, but somehow facing Branwen when he's roaring drunk worried me more; an ass, perhaps, but a strong ass.

Eight rounds per mag. How many shots will I need? I shoot one right in the eye; a pained yelp and a red dot no longer glows. The second eye dims, the scent of dust slaps my nose—as if the previous olfactory cruelties weren't enough. Seven. Wenge has his marks between ten and two, he's fine.

"Eyes aren't armoured," I say. Not that I'm accurate enough to hit all of them in the eyes, but interesting all the same. The rest of their pack swarms us, trying to overrun us. Hmm, that suggests at least a base intelligence.

A crash, the snapping of bones. "Smash down," he says. "Skull caves easier." Wenge's club is at the tail-end of a dust cloud, no marks outside his vision.

As if I have even half the power he does. Or is he being an ass because I'm more accurate? Squeeze the trigger, the bullet ricochets off the skull and into a tree. Another two shots, but neither gets the eye. Hmm. Four.

I unsheathe Sun just as two of them try to flank me, duck under a swipe, stab. Blade-tip shunts the ursa into his buddy, but doesn't pierce. Aim, fire—right into said buddy's eye at practically point-blank range, dusting him. Three. Sun clicks into snake form, lashing the sneaky little ass that thinks his stench goes unnoticed. Even with four of the thirteen links slamming into his skull, neck, and back, it's only glancing blows and barely gets noticed at all. Wenge has a sneaky fuck on his four.

With a flick of the wrist I lash the fucker and the ass I was already dealing with, earning a double lunge at me. Moon shoots the fuckers right in the eye, almost point-blank—they dust before its corpse even hits me. One.

Safety engages, holster, and spin the little dial at Sun's base. The length of the link-blades glow cyan. Two more ursas jump me at once. A slash, and they fall to chunks, dusting. No more movement. I look around, sniffing just in case.

"Clear," I say.

"Clear," Wenge agrees.

I press Sun's pommel and give a twist. The bay slides out, showing the crystal didn't take any damage, and there's no difference with the glow. Good. Slide the bay closed, flick Sun this way and that to un-dust, reel back into sword form and sheathe. Moon unholsters and I click out the mag, trading it for a fresh reg-mag. Will need to refill before too much longer—only have six reg-mags.

"Note to self," I mutter, shaking my head, "get extended mags." Wenge chuckles, highly amused. He isn't any worse for wear, tapping his club against a trunk to un-dust it. "Crystal worked like a charm."

He nods. Two sharp sniffs. "You got time," he says. With a nod, I dig into my backpack for more ammo and fish out my mostly empty reg-mag. The box of regular ammo pops open, and I quickly click the missing six in. "What you think?"

"Ursa minors aren't too big a threat. Could be useful for testing new moves and tactics. You?"

"Skull's visually the most armoured," he says. "The back ain't soft. Underbelly's the best bet. If you knock 'em down, it's easier to cave in the skull with a good hit. Might be interesting to phase your blade through them and unphase?"

I stow the box and slip my backpack onto my shoulders, unholstering Moon again. "Not a bad idea. You didn't need a single shot?"

"Not even for the ursa major." He sounds amused. Fuck, there was a big one? I take out my scroll and press it open, shifting to the aura monitoring app. He didn't take even a ding, but my aura is at ninety percent. Right, that's why I hated the extended mags. Moon's shots are almost as powerful as Sun's, with less area to spread the blast over.

"Hey. You think I stand a chance at getting laid?" I ask. Wenge only laughs, shaking his head at my twisted priorities. Scroll closes and stows, and we head out. "Seriously. I'm tired of seducing straight girls. It never ends well."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Only run into two more ursai packs—quite common to face, apparently, or at least common in this area. So, we make it to a stone bridge easily enough. I'm not sure I like this bridge. Fairly narrow over a seemingly bottomless ravine. I look over the side of the bridge—oh lovely. Not bottomless, so there's plenty of space to fall properly before the landing kills you.

Nothing keeps this stone-age jenga tower in one piece, and it's so narrow that any land-based attacks would instantly put us at a disadvantage—or, well, technically it's a choke-point so us against many is in our favour. Not that aerial attacks aren't twice as fucking dangerous, considering there's no cover possible here. As we're strolling across, the abandoned temple comes into view ahead. Unless the bridge is also technically 'abandoned temple'…in which case, we've arrived.

Same stonework, same clunky chunks stacked atop each other. Strangely, there are no signs of this place being overgrown, as if it's properly maintained. Or maybe the grimm eat the vines? Dunno. Don't even know if they eat at all.

Another pair rush passed us and grab something and rush passed again. It might be efficient to work swiftly, but really, this isn't a race. Either way, we reach the end of the bridge and step onto the temple plateau. There seem to be a dozen little stone pedestals, each housing coloured chess pieces. Not sure I like the symbolism of it, but fine.

"Right," I say and grab the white queen piece and stuff it into my backpack for safekeeping. "That's our bit handled. Haul ass back?"

"Makes sense." Wenge nods. "Piggyback, my queen?"

Back of my pistol hand against my brow, I pretend I'm swooning, about ready to faint. "Mr Bruin. You sure know how to treat a lady." He snorts, shaking his head as he scoops me up like I'm a fussy toddler. "This works too. Hanging upside-down was really giving me a headache."

"It must be so much work, being carried."

I glare, or try to. He turns heel and dashes off so fast he barely has to hold me in place.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The amphitheatre is full of cheering and applause and words. Two screens light up with four pictures each, announcing the teams being formed. So many dicks; some boys, too.

Four arrogant little shits walk onto the platform, standing at attention before Ozpin. He calls their names, names them, and appoints a leader. Surprisingly, Douchebag McAsshole isn't said once—I've seen a fair share that shouldn't be named anything else. Goodwitch nods to us, and we walk up.

"Wenge Bruin. Ivory DeWitt. Tiffany Tulip. Eminence Neon," Ozpin says, gazing dispassionately at us. I should be happy I have a female teammate, but Tiff is too busy not glaring at me for some fucking reason. She's been avoiding me, and that spells all kinds of 'not good' that I just don't want to unpack in this lifetime. "You will be team White. Led by."

Tiff glances my way.

"Wenge Bruin."

The dark-skinned boy frowns. Tiff breathes a sigh of relief. But I tackle Wenge, gushing over and over as I climb the gentle giant and raise his fist into the air to proclaim him champion of the world.

"Congrats, baby bear."

**_8-8_**

* * *

I look around. The room is about the same size as my last dorm. Plain brown walls, taupe floor in that faux-wood style, and a single curtain fluttering in the wind. The beds honestly look like they were placed with laser precision—so perfectly spaced. There's a desk on the opposite wall of each bed, with a single chair, table lamp, and three shelves hung over it.

"We got this side," Wenge says and walks over to the left and plops on the bed closer to the middle of the room, no doubt marking the one closer to the wall as mine. I'm right on his heel before the others decide they're the 'we' mentioned. There are two doors over this way, perfectly spaced out. I jerk one open, finding decent closet space. The other jerks open as well, revealing more of the same. The other side of the room has the other two, so this works out.

"I got the right," I say over my shoulder, plopping my duffel bag in the right-hand closet. It's been a long ass day, so I'm in no mood to unpack just yet.

"It's communal baths and toilets," Wenge says, his gaze on me for some reason, but I'm more interested in the empty bookshelves. Ah, fuck it. I hate seeing empty bookshelves. I pluck up my bag and plop it on my desk. "Ive?"

My mechanics textbooks from Signal slide onto the shelf I've already clearly claimed as my own—given there are shelves over each desk, there's no reason for them to get all huffy with the setup.

"I was," Tiff sounds more than a little put out with something, but I'm too busy organizing my books to be bothered, "hoping we could. Have a girls' side?"

"I was hoping to get laid," I say. Practical Dust and Crystal Applications. Good book, but this D.S. Brown gets way too wordy. Still, it's something that's helped me time and again.

With the last of my books already set on my shelves—all design theory, mechanics, advanced chemistry, and dust theory books—I lift my lap-desk out of my bag and press the button to unfold it, setting it on my bed. The little slate grey surface is littered with scratches and burn marks from the shit I've gotten up to; she looks as rickety now as the day I scalped her.

My weapons' care kits, my modifications pouch, and my etui with my precision screwdrivers get stacked on the lap-desk. I'll probably designate a shelf in my closet for storage, or just plop it onto my desk when I want sleep, but that's for another day. A day when I have energy to actually think.

"Hey, you figure out how to balance the kickback on your pistol?" Wenge asks. There's a groaning of springs; ah, Wenge is putting himself between me and Tiff, warning her I'm not in the mood. "Look. Tulip. I get what you're sayin', but Ive's got a serious touch thing."

Tiff walks right around him and pokes my nose, just because she can. "I was stuck with this airhead for four years. I'm pretty sure I can handle her."

"Uh." A little voice from the other side of the room. It isn't that he sounds young, or high-pitched or anything, he just sounds small, like he isn't sure he matters just now. "Hi." Wenge, Tiff, and I look over at…Neon. His tiger-striped orange shirt and glow-in-the-dark lavender cargo pants reminds me of a billboard. And the undercut with bright pink corn-rows on his head…doesn't help the image much. This boy screams 'look at me' without even trying. So why does he look nervous?

Neon clears his throat and coughs into his hand. "Sup. Eminence Neon. Graduated from Sanctum. Tiffany I already know. Somewhat, at least." He sounds steadier in his shoes, but doesn't look any less unsure than a moment ago.

"Bruin. Faunus, in case you missed the signs." Wenge cocks an eyebrow, already sizing the boy up. Sure Neon's like a head taller than me, but Wenge is still by far the giant in the room.

"DeWitt. Don't touch me, don't touch my things, and don't get all familiar and shit with me. Went to Signal with these two. They've. Earned. My respect." Tiff flicks my nose again, giving me a funny look. "What. You ignored me since we arrived. Your own damn fault."

"I was hanging out with Yang. Stop getting all huffy about me not having your hang-ups." She grabs my shoulders, as if the act magically changes reality. "Now why can't we split the room so I don't have to change in front of Neon?" Because changing in front of Wenge is so much better?

I roll my eyes and shrug her off to get right back to unpacking my clothes. I don't have nearly enough stuff to fill my closet, but that's nothing new. "Because I'm not changing in front of anyone," I say, stacking my panties and bras without a care in the world. "And if I find him nosing through my things, there won't be a corpse left to find."

Neon gulps almost painfully, nodding to show he understands how real the threat is.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The school store is. Bothersome. Oh so bothersome. And full, and busy, and a whole mess of descriptors that are not synonymous with 'peaceful'.

Still. This needs handling, and the rest of the student body no doubt needs to handle it as well. I unfold my book list, and head over to that side. Hmm. History, boring. Grimm typology, biology, and tracking—oh fuck yeah, barbecue the bitches. Battle and battlefield tactics, could be interesting. Survival of the fittest: a guide to the great outdoors.

I blink, looking at that last name. It's a fucking camping book. Not only did some wiseass write a book on camping, but it's required reading? Fuck my life.

International Piloting Licence Handbook? We're learning to fly. Okay, I can stand leaning to camp now. That's weird; I don't remember applying for this elective? Wenge probably did it for me, knowing him.

Wenge and I gather our required reading books, and pick up a dozen empty notebooks for what we hope will be a very informative year. He grabs a pack of a dozen ballpoint pens, and I get the same in mechanical pencils, with refills and erasers.

"Hey. They've got weapons and gear," Wenge says and nods to the section with the most foot traffic. Interesting, to be sure. We both love ogling weapons and the like, but this needs handling and my patience has long since run thin with this particular three-ring circus.

"You go on ahead. I'll…" I look over to the uniforms, and sigh. Fucking skirts. Again. It isn't that I hate the damn things, but for fighting? Who the hell enjoys fighting in a skirt? Other than onlookers, obviously.

"Don't shoot anyone," Wenge says, waves, and heads over, no doubt glad he can just shop without needing me to run interference with Vale's usual zealous bigots. Sigh. Well, at least he's happy.

Maroon jacket, not the best but not bad either. Skirt—ick—let alone the migraine-inducing pattern. White form-fitting top with a fucking ribbon—what am I, a present for someone to unwrap?

The image of Goodwitch tugging my ribbon loose lobs itself into my brain; I shiver, as does my suddenly aching clit. Gods, may she be as straight as a horse shoe.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Charcoal drawings of king taijitu, death stalker, beowolf, boarbatusk, nevermore, and ursai. To be fair, that ursai looks like an ursa minor which is the more common incarnation, but still. A golden-looking bust of the pompous prick—he's in no way self-absorbed, obviously. The globe on his half-donut desk at least makes sense. Though, frankly, the man's script is abhorrent. That looks like 'boonbatusk'—if I didn't already know its name, I'd sound like an utter buffoon speaking of 'boonbatusks'.

Professor Port starts his lecture the most awkward way he possibly can. "Huntsmen. Huntresses." He makes a clicking sound and waggles his eyebrow suggestively—making a 'so not flirting' face to Xiao Long. You see, this is why Beacon doesn't want its students armed during class. I'd shoot his ass if he dares flirt with me. Hmm. Maybe I should get my hands on another pistol that I can keep on me at all times? Or maybe I can just make one. One that doubles as a dagger? Yeah, that way I can stab and shoot the pig if he flirts with me. So doing that.

He starts yammering on and on about this and that. Until at last he comes up to the actual informative part. Triple bareback knot –odd name, will have to look that up—pit trap filled with grimm to lure the larger ones. Beowolf only travels on all fours during high-speed travel, so they're technically shorter than they'd otherwise appear and this affects their tracks. If their hind footprints are deeper, they're either in battle or were threatening battle. Useful information buried under a veneer of bullshit.

Hmm. I've only seen a few packs of ursai, but they always seem to be in packs. His story tells of a single beowolf. Are they lone hunters?

I scribble notes. Especially of how he enjoys studying grimm in captivity, how they act totally different, at least in his mind. Hmm. And what's with the blunderbuss? That's not exactly an efficient rifle, let along the dual axe heads on the butt. Isn't that uncomfortable to fire? Probably emphasises his life hack—follow the rule of cool, but be otherwise worthless.

Hmm. Grimm corpses don't linger, but the living tend to attract more grimm; best to destroy quickly then. Interesting. Does size affect the attraction of grimm? The more bones visible, the more likely they'll attract other grimm? Maybe that's why beowolves are solitary while ursai are usually in packs. And nevermores…they're huge but I've never heard of them ganging up. Hmm, worth monitoring.

"The moral of the story?" Port says. There's a moral? Dude, you were literally telling us tactics on how to trap the shits. "A true huntsman must be honourable." No, we need to get paid. "A true huntsman must be dependable." Thereby getting paid regularly. "A true huntsman must be strategic, well-educated, and wise." All relating more kills and more Lien, so that makes sense.

"So." Port looks around, as if weighing us. "Who among you believes themselves to be the embodiment of these traits?"

"I do, sir!" Schnee says, raising her hand. Oh, boy. Dunno what crawled up her ass and died, but she radiates irritation.

"Well, then," Port says, "let's find out!" Are you kidding me? Rewarding that kind of shit is exactly the problem. "By the way. If any team leaders desire individual hunts, into the Emerald Forest, say. Please do not hesitate to fill in a request form. I do enjoy a good hunt. But be warned. I will refuse any team I feel cannot handle such a jaunt."

I prop my elbow up onto the desk Team WITE shares, plopping my chin onto my palm. Professor Port gives us all a verbal warning that we might well be asked to demonstrate how to fight grimm during his classes, and explains that the syllabus details the assigned readings for each class—and points out that uniforms are required to enter his class, while glaring at some dumb fuck in his street clothes.

"Ah," Port says. "Ms Schnee." The heiress stands at the ready, back in her bone white battle dress—a fucking skirt, why am I not surprised? With fucking heels?! Who in their right mind thinks fighting is heels make sense? Running in heels is a good way to twist your ankle, fighting in them is signing your death certificate, wedge heels or no. Hmm. She seems to have a rapier of some sort. With a revolver-styled hilt with slits that glow of dust. Schnee Dust Company, of course she uses her own products.

Professor Port takes his blunder-axe and hacks the lock open. Boarbatusk. Unarmoured belly, heavily armoured head and back—seems to be a theme with these things. Large tusks, hoop-like almost. Hmm, charges dead ahead, right for her, and drops its head as if to align its spine for impact. That's interesting. Has a steady dead-sprint pace, likely can't steer well once it starts charging.

The boarbatusk rams into the wall, but doesn't seem fazed by it. It turns on a dime, if while not trotting ahead. Definitely can't control its direction well. Would hacking off its legs make sense?

"What chu think, bra," Wenge murmurs, nudging me with his elbow.

"Seems suited to ramming," I says, keeping my voice down to not bother the others. "Blunt force to the skull would need more oomph than you're used to. Belly seems like the best place, least armoured. Maybe a side-step and ramming your club in its side?"

He makes a thinking-frown, shelving the thought for when he can test it, and says, "Tag?"

"If you were to," I say, scratching my cheek, "trip it up or knock it over, I could either shoot or gut while stunned. If it's mid-stride, I'd make a poor point-girl, but good bait. Maybe a bait-n-switch?"

"You solo?" he asks.

"Hmm." How would I take it down? "If I see it coming, rifle-Sun might make short work of it. If it's already too close?" How would I handle it solo? Phase through it, so I don't get hit. But even if it rams something sturdy it could shake it off. "Hacking off the legs to give me room to work? Maybe I could wrap snake-Sun around its neck and use a nearby branch for leverage and shoot it?"

"Sweet," Neon murmurs. "If you hang it up, I could carve it up." I glare at him, warning him to back off. This is Wenge-Ivory plotting, not Team WITE.

"Ive." Wenge glares at me, leaning forward to blot out Neon's annoyed cocked eyebrow. I roll my eyes and get back to watching Schnee making an ass of herself by berating her team leader. Funny. Xiao Long says something, no response. Belladonna says something, no response. Rose says something tactically robust, and gets chewed out for it. I wonder who she has an issue with…?

"You're setting just as bad an example," Tiff murmurs, glaring at me. Ohs noes. The team's frigid bitch is living up to her reputation. What ever will we do?

Schnee rockets to the upturned boarbatusk and skewers it, right in the underbelly like Rose suggested. Hmm. Is that how people experience me? Must be frustrating.

Professor Port reminds us about the assigned reading, and dismisses us. "Team White meeting. Let's go." I roll my eyes, already knowing what Wenge is planning.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"He's not just your dormmate," Wenge says. "He's your teammate. For the next four years." I nod, sipping my tea like nothing's the matter. The mess hall is, as usual, teeming with life. The picnic-styled tables are lined up in two columns and filled with jittery shits—and all the two-bit asshats I wouldn't piss on if they were on fire. "Ive. Seriously. I'm not asking you to be nice to everyone. Just tolerable, and to a teammate. Is that too much to ask?"

Legs cross at the ankles, tucked to my right to drop my knees. Head tilts towards Tiff, who rolls her eyes. I don't bother much with Xiao Long or Ao, who were Tiff's and my dormmates in Signal. Both Wenge and Tiff know this.

Neon looks from Tiff to Wenge, and back to me, blinking rapidly.

"If you seek my word I won't be an utter shrew to him," I intone. "Fine." Teacup upends and the last of the still warm liquid drains into me. "Rest assured, Mr Neon. I don't hate you more than anyone else." Clicking cup onto saucer, Wenge's I-have-an-idea face comes into focus.

"We need to run team drills," Wenge says. Ah fuck. "Remember how Port offered…?"

"My point exactly." I glare, annoyed at the bullshit I know is coming.

"Aw, don't be like that. Ma wouldn't let me in the house without you."

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Two_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Does anyone wonder why Ivory has the semblance she has? Hmm. I wonder; what could it possibly mean for her?  
_**


	3. V1:C3—On the hunt

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

**_Volume One, Chapter Three—On the hunt_**

_**8-8**_

* * *

"Combatants, to the centre!" Goodwitch's unbending tone shoots up my spine, setting it ramrod straight. Faded orange hoodie kept low. Seven-eighths sandy brown tights saunter as I approach Winchester. Carrot top looks smug as fuck, strutting my way. Gaze flickers Wenge's way, who's mutely begging me not to kill this one.

"How you wanna do this?" I ask, shifting my weight to my right leg with hand on hip. "All out? Power calibration? Tap-spar?"

"Aren't we confident?" Winchester asks. I'm unsure if he's being sarcastic or acidic given wields his ginormous mace left-handed, scratching his jawline to show how comfortable he is with it. Dunno what school he hails from, but Branwen and Xiao Long would chew him out for the simplistic weapon, let alone how it makes him a one-trick pony. No long-range, no cover fire, not even a shield or headgear. He wouldn't last five minutes in Signal. "We are training to be hunts_men_," I hear the gendering in that, you slimy little shit, "so all out."

I unsheathe Sun, and only Sun. Winchester frowns, gaze flickering to my still very much holstered pistol and my sheath that is clearly not fastened to me, so it has a use other than just sitting there.

"What're you deaf? I said all out."

Eyes snap to Wenge, he motions for me to calm the fuck down and mouthes, _Drinks on me._

I slide my right foot back into a defensive stance, with my left foot pointing to Winchester. With Sun lain on shoulder, relaxed, unhurried. But my gaze never lingers from Wenge.

"Begin!"

A slash, Sun clicks into snake form and snaps around the mace coming right for my head. Winchester twirls with his blow, phases right through me, and he sprawls out on the floor.

"Lack of headgear." I glare down at the little shit that thought himself my better. "While it sacrifices field of vision, it prevents grimm from taking nibbles at what little brain matter you have."

He flies up onto his feet and Sun slaps his legs out from under him, flooring him again.

"Lack of a shield." With a slash, I slam three blade-links into his head, off-hand just as it rises to protect him, and his chest. "While off balance, you have nothing saving you."

Another slash, this time right to his mace-hand, slapping his weapon right out of his grip.

"Lack of backup weapon." Sun reels right back into her sword form, and I sheathe her. "Whenever you're down, you're helpless."

I walk up to him, stopping just outside his reach, and unholster Moon, pointing right at the purple eyes glaring up at me.

With my right hand, I point up at the big ass screen displaying him at eighty percent. "You're in the green, right pretty-boy?" I click off the safety and fire a shot right into his crotch. His aura bar drops to just under three-quarters. Five percent, huh? Red should be twenty-five, right?

I open fire, shooting him in the dick over and over and over, dispassionately meeting his horrified gaze as he tries to scamper away from me, and towards his weapon.

When Moon clicks, the screen shows Winchester's still well above the red, perhaps thirty-five percent, and he's almost to his weapon too. What a shame. Well, I'm not taking Sun back out. So how about…?

I click out the magazine, stowing it into my hip pouch. Winchester comes running, no doubt thinking this is his chance. Hmm. Most everyone from Signal knows what my Semblance is, so it's not like showing it just now will mean anything. Still. There's a point to be made here.

Teeth clench around the top crystal of my tongue ring, and my aura pours into it. My icy breath covers the floor in sleet just as he's running, and he does a split. The look on his face as he grabs his baby-maker—priceless.

I calmly, unhurriedly check the magazine, to make sure this is a reg-mag, and stuff it into Moon's butt. With little more than a click of the release, the slider snaps forward and pops a round into the chamber.

But instead of shooting him, I walk right over the ice to him and ram a jackboot in his face, sending his dumb ass tumbling right back to the corner he crawled out of. His aura bar doesn't drop, practically at all. Not that I was expecting it; assholes like that are used to getting smacked around like the little bitch he is.

"Enough." Goodwitch calls it. He isn't in the red, but this is her show. I nod, engage the safety and holster Moon without an issue, bowing to her before I walk off the stage. "Ms DeWitt."

I stop, but only turn my head so I can see her from the corner of my eye. Unfortunately, that gives me an eyeful of the screen, and how my aura bar is just climbing back up to ninety-five percent.

"This is still a lesson," Goodwitch says, frowning ever so slightly. "Please explain why this was a poor matchup."

There are only so many hours in a day, even after all the things I already pointed out. "Boils down to reach," I say and shift my weight to one leg, hand on hip. "With my snake sword and pistol, I can hit him long before he hits me."

"That's part of it." Goodwitch nods, slashing her riding prong at Winchester and jerking him up onto his feet even as she motions me off into the crowd. "But there's more. Who can tell me what archetypal battle tactics our two combatants used?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

New gas chamber clicks onto the chassis. Wenge holds it in place and focuses his Semblance. Less than a second, and when he removes his hand…? The metal that connects the two isn't just fused, it's one. No sign at all they were separate entities but a moment ago.

A can with a long thin straw on its nozzle attaches to the base of the chamber, and the release is pressed. It isn't long before the can cools and my Moon warms up—pressurized gas transference is funny like that.

Once the new chamber is half full—can't fill it all the way in one sitting, not without a critical malfunction—I set the can on my desk and holster Moon.

"You plan on testing her?" Wenge asks. Rag in hand gets sprayed with a degreaser, I wipe my desk down. There's little I hate more than a greasy desk mucking all my precious books. "Ive?"

"Running calculations," I lie through my teeth. Once my desk is clean, I take out my scroll and switch to the temp app. Thermal imaging of Moon comes up, her gas chamber lit up like the midday sun. At the current rate of energy output, she should be in nominal range within an hour. Either fill again and wait another hour, or head out and refill before storing in my locker? It'll have all the time to cool there, and it should be safe; as safe as filling it in my dorm, at least.

A nod. "Translation?" Wenge asks.

I roll my eyes. "When's the thing?"

Wenge glares, clearly about to go full snitty mode on me. "In the morning. You know. Saturday. The first day of the week we don't have classes? More commonly referred to as 'the weekend', or 'the promised land'." He even does the air quotes. Who even does that anymore?

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you." Hmm. Firing it outside of a combat situation makes more sense. It'll let me know if bringing it into combat makes sense, and it'll let me know if it affects aura usage and how. "Yeah. Definitely need to test her."

"Is it so bad to listen to me?" He cocks an eyebrow, mirth dancing in his bright brown eyes.

In other words, Neon will 'just so happen' to either be present or be testing something as well. Lovely.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Professor Port strolls along, casually pointing out that we're on a death stalker's trail. I'm far more interested in the ursai surrounding us. You know, growling, red-eyed glaring, fangs bared, and claws extended and ready to rip us to pieces assholes that are a bit more immediate than the death stalker we can't see just yet? Let alone that there are some fifty of the likkle fuckers.

"You know. I often wander this path. It helps me to clear my head." I will shoot you, Port. I will fucking shoot you.

"Em," Wenge dishes out orders, "take my right. Tiff, my left. Ive, you're on snipe. Watch each other's back. Understood?" I roll my eyes, unsheathing Sun and unholstering Moon. At this range, this is the only sniping I can hope for.

Neon has dual daggers, curved forward, dual wielding but not enough power to cut through the ursa minor lunging at him; he rams his armoured knee into the ursa, smashing his skull with a little explosion that sends both the corpse and Neon rocketing away from each other; the survivor uses the momentum to slam a dagger into the skull of the next victim. No long-range, per se, but that isn't half bad.

Tiff has her pogo stick—never did understand it, but she's proficient. She rushes one of the ursa and stabs at it with the 'springy' side, she jerks back but the explosion leaves the grimm a head shorter—no less intelligent, though.

Wenge, for his part plays a game of whack-a-grimm. None have a mark outside their vision, none seem overwhelmed just now. They seem to form a triangle of sorts around me, but only Wenge stands his ground. Port is quite busy studying the scratches on a tree trunk, and doesn't even have his blunder-axe out. Better keep an eye on the old coot.

Tiff underestimates an explosion and is sent flying right into the ursa major; Sun clicks into snake form and wraps around her waist, but not tugging her. Her pogo rams into the grimm's mouth and out the back, dusting it, but leaving her with too much momentum. I tug, hard, making sure to slow her enough that she doesn't send herself into the nest of ursa that look a little pissed off their alpha just got 'sploded.

Three of the said pissed off ursai gang up on Neon, who tenses and charges them just the same. He not only leaves formation, but he purposely runs into a fuckton of trouble, the little shit. I reel Sun in, click her into sword form and flip her into a reverse-grip, spinning the little dial; blade's edge glows cyan as I spin her into hammer-grip again and click her into snake form. The momentum has glowing blade-tip blur into a slate blue slash, and phases through Neon.

The ursai he was about to engage, dust before he even reaches them. "Stay in formation," I grind out, reeling Sun back into sword form and deactivating the crystal. Will need to check how she's doing when I have a moment.

One of the ursai sneaks up on Port. Moon aims; a shot to the back of the head. Not enough to wound, but certainly gets that one's attention. Seven. Wenge rushes that one and slams his club into its skull; it can't tell if it dusts or is nailed into the loamy soil. Either way, no longer a problem.

"I thought as much," Port says as he points to a broken branch hanging from its socked. "Ursai don't break branches. The mark the trunk and rub their backs against the bark. Clearly the death stalker was through here. Come along, students. It isn't far, I'm sure of it."

Can we finish one fight before starting another? Fucking woodlice must have eaten the last of his brain.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I sip my beer with all the reverence of bottled piss; thank the gods it's cold or it might well taste of it. Hate the taste, acquired or no, but after dealing with people all day, I need a buzz to unfuck my mood.

The situation is only made worse by being surrounded by the very…people I'm annoyed with. Neon keeps bragging about how he slit the stinger off that death stalker. Tiff corrects him by saying it was her assist that gave him the momentum he needed. Wenge rolls his eyes and points out that Neon would be dead if it wasn't for my quick thinking, and how Tiff needs to chill the fuck out—not an exact quote. Which of course means Tiff feels entitled to point out that Wenge is being too much, and how Neon can handle himself just fine.

So many words, none seem drowned out by the beer dripping down my throat one sip at a time. Legs cross at the ankles, knees drop. Another glass filled from the forty Wenge bought for us to share, leaving a thick layer of froth on top, just how I like it.

Moon's kickback is indeed far less with her recent upgrade, taking almost no aura to keep my wrist from shattering. Maybe I should upgrade to the extended clips now? I could possibly get double mags.

Another sip, and Neon's gaze falls on me. He refills my barely half empty glass, his lips forming words that don't penetrate the haze at long last. An effect of the booze or not, I'm grateful.

"Ive." Wenge cocks an eyebrow. "Professor Port mentioned we'll be allowed to take missions in just over a month. I won't sign us up unless we work together flawlessly."

I nod and sip.

"I'm serious. The Vytal Fest isn't far off. If we can't even do missions, then…?"

Neon mutters something, Tiff gets salty and sneers at me. But nothing they say breaches the little world I've carved out, even in mess hall.

"Ive. Seriously. If we do well, we can attract sponsors." My eyes widen. Cup upends, the buzz and chill sending a shiver through me. "Finally. Look, the way I figure it, we stand at least a decent shot at making a showing. But, unless we're making a splash it makes more sense to bow out. Negative publicity at this stage could end our shot at celebrity, you know."

Oh, the Lien we could rake in if we get a sponsor.

Winchester draws near with his lackeys in tow, the rattle of their armour announcing their approach. I'm entirely too sober to put up with his petulance.

"Cardin," Wenge intones and cocks an eyebrow, turning and sprawling out his leg onto the chair on the opposite side of the walkway to make a clear barrier between me and the walking piss froth. The entire dining hall goes quiet. I sip my beer, offering the man-child all the attention he's worth. "Something you need?"

"That isn't a fight you want, Cardin," Nikos says, chin lain on her folded hands, green eyes lit up with amusement. She wants him to ignore her warning. Neon refills my plastic cup, smirking to show he's on Nikos's side in this.

"Ivory. You're a decent fighter," Winchester says, clearly not listening. "I could use a sparring partner. Two-on-two and Team-on-Team. You interested?"

I sip my beer. Wenge is cautious, so he'll pull rank and bow out of anything he thinks is too dangerous. My bank account is hungry, so I'm not turning down this opportunity—even if it means working with Neon. "Xiao Long rules," I say.

Wenge smirks and pats my shoulder, announcing how the world just went to hell. "Alright. Team White. Starting tomorrow, five on the dot. Morning drills." Tiff glares. "No. That isn't me agreeing to the spar."

"Dang, cap," Neon says with a smirk, his yellow eyes more than a little amused. But that has Winchester fuming even worse. "Was wondering when we'd start."

**_8-8_**

* * *

I set Neon's weapons and armour on my desk, and get to de-oiling them for proper care and inspection. Let's see here. Neon's greave-boots have burn dust to act as a rocket propellant almost. So that's how he accelerates like his ass is on fire. Four vents on the sole; two large ones on the heel and toe, with two smaller ones in the middle at antagonistic angles—that should offer decent manoeuvrability. The knee cap is a solid chunk, with struts running down to the boot portion for extra support. Smart.

Hmm. Using powdered dust would give one hell of a kick, but isn't as sustainable. I'm not sure how crystals would help, given how explosive his fighting style is. Works like a thief, but everything he does draws attention to himself. A walking contradiction, this Neon.

Well, little I can do with this. I quickly apply fresh oil to it, and get to his daggers. Hmm. No shifting at all. Just static daggers. Kukris almost. Little powdered dust feeding line up the spine of the blade. Bay holds only red dust. He buys in bulk to save money. Money-wise that's efficient. Battle-wise that's a good way to get himself killed, and take my pay check right along with him.

We are not having that.

I re-oil his daggers and set them on an empty sheet of paper, drawing their outline with my mechanical pencil. I mark the spine and the grip and the butt and use a squiggly line to demark the dust feeding line.

Hmm, the grip is perfectly circular. That's inefficient. No way to feel the edge alignment and that means ineffective cuts, which lowers lethality.

Maybe turn the pommel into a flat butt, and install a dial. Get him a hard-light crystal, and turn the one bay into…three? Fire isn't a great attack; it's a one trick pony. So, ice. That freezes and allows for traps and defence. Electric, that fries electrical systems and can conduct through most armours. And…earth. That would allow for a defensive wall to make a getaway and can crumble stone defences.

Right. But that still leaves him with no long range. Hard-light powder could give him some long-range shots? But that's not the cheapest option.

"You like working with light and short?" I ask over my shoulder.

"It's all I could afford at the time." That's not an answer, Neon. Hmm, no. A crystal won't give him the kick he needs. He'll need the powder, give him some plausible ranged attacks, depending on his Semblance.

"Yes or no."

"I'm good with them, yes," Neon says. I assume he thinks he's answering me, but I hear no answers. "I'm not against something with more oomph, no." Of all the…

"You need a better weapon. I am designing and building something better. Do you want bigger than this, or do you want to stick with a dagger-like design?"

"Ah." I turn, finding the dark-skinned boy fiddling with seam of his pants. "I. Uh, if you…don't mind…?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Neon. State your preference or I'm going to design something I think works well with your fighting style." He looks away, jaw squared. Fucking idiot.

Grips need to be more ergonomic. More ovular, but retaining the rounded edges. Hmm, why not elongate the blades, to have more mass to work with?

**_8-8_**

* * *

Arc and Winchester spar. With how Arc's on his ass more than his feet, you'd think his opponent competent. Frankly, Arc is all kinds of fucked. His footwork is trash, he doesn't use his shield properly, and his sword-work is inefficient at best. He doesn't realise his aura is being whittled down, as if he isn't used to working with it. Hell, he doesn't even seem to notice that he should have every advantage against the likes of that fuckwit.

Arc overextends, leaving a gaping hole in his defence for Winchester's baseball bat swing, costing Arc not just aura, but his shield as well. You'd think that means Arc sees his current strategy isn't winning, right?

Nope, he comes with a clearly telegraphed overhead swing that Winchester blocks with his mace. To block a blow with a mace—words I never thought would be true. What's worse, Arc gets pushed down into a disadvantageous stance, giving the asshat momentum and every advantage.

"This is the part. Where you lose." Winchester calls it like it is.

"Over my dead—" Arc gets a knee to the groin for backchat. Hmm, it seems Winchester has forgotten his place in the world, trying to stand taller than he logically should. Well, as long as he doesn't get tangled up with Team WITE, he'll live. For now.

Goodwitch calls the match, explaining overly simplified rules of a tournament styled match and how 'aura falling into the red' is a bad thing—which, apparently, starts at fifteen percent. Clearly Arc hasn't had a day of proper training in his life, but he has three top-notch teammates; ask for pointers, it isn't hard.

And why would Professor Branwen teach me that 'the red' is twenty-five percent? Was he that protective of me? That protective of my opponents? Sigh.

Goodwitch mentions the Vytal festival, and how it's only a few months away. Blah, blah, blah. Gods, she was so much hotter before I got to know her—too much of a straight shooter to ever bother with a guttersnipe like me.

"Yo, Ive." Neon comes over, offering the butt of one of his new blades. "Running low on ice. I done got the refill, but I can't figure out this locking mech."

With only my index finger I poke the dial, turn it to the symbol that looks like an O, and pull back. The butt tilts up, as if following me.

"Ah. Uh." Well said, Neon. Well said. "Now I just feel stupid." I chuckle, but figure he's doing well enough berating himself. He takes out a finger-sized canister and looks at the pair of the dubiously.

"I would've written a manual," I say, shaking my head, "but I doubt you're the type to read it." I take the canister, twist it onto the short sword's ice bay head, and turn the coupled pair upside down. Powdered ice dust pours into the empty receptacle, leaving the canister roughly half full. Giving the canister a twist, the bay shuts and I turn the pair right-side-up, uncoupling the canister and offering them both to him, after closing them properly, of course.

Neon stares as I click the bay closed and turn the dial back to the ice symbol. "Dang, Ive. A'ight. Drinks're on me."

**_8-8_**

* * *

We gather round the table again. Wenge, Tiff, Neon, and me. Beer is poured, a single paper sprawled out, and Wenge keeps tapping it with his ballpoint, as if the point he needs to make is just out of reach.

"Alright," Wenge mutters, officially starting the meeting. "I've spoken to Professor Port. One of the professors arranged a simple survival outing for first-years. If we can get through that without Goodwitch worrying we'll jump off a cliff, we'll be allowed a more hazardous hunt, this time one that pays at the start of next semester. So. Tiffany Tulip. What do I have to do to keep your head in the game?"

"I take offence." Blondie crosses her arms, pouting and glaring at Wenge for insinuating she's the problem.

"None given, so that's on you." Wenge cocks an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the attempt. "What. Do I. Have to do. To keep your head in the game?"

"Hello." Tiff points to me, narrowing her eyes. "She's been a total airhead during every training we've ever suffered through and **_I_**'m the one that worries you?"

"Yes. You worry me. Ivory's a Grade A jackass, but the second you mention Lien, she's focused. Which she seriously needs to unlearn, by the way." Wenge glares at me, but I just roll my eyes. "Eminence is a slack-off on all fronts, but when you earn his respect he'd take on a nevermore solo if you tell him to. You, on the other hand…?"

Tiff is an all-round ditz, unless she's in front of a console. Hell, even her weapon is a child's toy. At least I admit what I am. Mostly admit what I am.

"Tch." Blondie crosses her arms and says, "Fine. Let me see this 'everyone focused' promise land you speak of."

"You already did," Wenge states the obvious. "That hunt with Professor Port. It's how I know Em would take on anything we need him to. It's how I know you're not taking this seriously. Stop blaming everyone for your attitude. What do I need to do to get you focused?"

"Weekly massage," Tiff grumbles, obviously not receiving the usual pandering she gets from guys. She does know Wenge isn't into humans, right? Let alone him not being more into guys.

"I'll throw in a mani-pedi," Wenge says, sounding amused. Tulip glows, doubt glad to get pampered the way she used to. "If. And only if. You stick to the plan."

"Done!" Tulip clearly couldn't care less. And I'm the haughty one? Fuck me.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I will fucking shoot that Winchester. The ship's nose-diving, there's a fucking avalanche coming at me, and for some gods-damned reason there's a flock of nevermore on my ass. A **flock**. When I get that asshole, I'm gonna staple his nuts to the fucking ceiling. No matter how I pull back on the steering, the nose refuses to pull the fuck back up. Think, Ive. There's more than one way to shank a snitch. Hmm, let's try the wing actuator?

One hand on the steering, I reach up and dial back the wings so they're at a thirty degree angle. The nose is quick to pick up, the screen flashing red to show the Gs that puts me under risks knocking me and my passengers out—better unconscious than dead.

Foot floors the pedal as I slide the wing actuator into a full ninety degree angle to get above the incoming boulder. I spin the steering to get a good fucking view of the bullshit nevermores on my tail. It's a bullshit airbus, so no armaments whatsoever.

Three…eight…fourteen. Fourteen of the fuckers and an avalanche. Estimated distance….half a kilometre and closing fast. Their top speed is…fifty kilometres an hour on level plane. Mine's one-fifty. Outrun the fuckers.

Turning my little bitch around, I check my situation. I'm above the risk of rock-fall, and just in time for a sea feilong to spread its wings in the distant pool of blue, and get ready to charge up at me. Why not. Hey, let's just toss in a leviathan while we're…

Not one. Why just one? Fucking six leviathans.

There, in the distance, is my little green marker, my mission's target, on the far side of said serpents and grimm of the deep. And of course, three of the leviathans are heading that way. Because we can't have anything be simple when 'the princess' is involved. Right.

I grumble under my breath about the walking piss froth I know is behind this bullshit.

My screen flashes red—beowolves have infiltrated my cargo bay? How in the flaming hells am I supposed to deal with that on a gods-damned simulator?!

You know what? Fuck this.

I phase through my seatbelt and through the paper thin walls over to the 'command deck' where Winchester and his little bitches are doubling over cackling at the fate of the poor pilots.

"Heh. How do you like it, huh?" Winchester clicks something and a beowulf spawns in the cockpit beside my avatar—and it's clearly labelled as 'I. DeWitt', so there's no mistaking the situation. The digital me is eaten, but he doesn't seem to realise that his buddies are quite busy trying to not piss themselves, having seen me phase through two solid metres of concrete. Instead of worrying with them, I walk along, my boots clapping the stone as I go. "Ha! Take that you little—."

Finger reaches for the console to open the door, and Professor Peach just so happens to walk in.

"Professor," I intone. "Control your little shits. Or I'll do it for you." And I walk the fuck out. This is why these assholes don't want me armed. Fuck.

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Three_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: ^_^_**

**_Hopefully I've ironed out all the mistakes properly. Seto's an amazing beta, but I will always take full responsibilities for any mistakes left in._**


	4. V1:C4—The gift of flowers

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume One, Chapter Four—The gift of flowers**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Sorry," Neon says, for the umpteenth time today. And we're just sitting down to breakfast. He still looks green, like he wants to puke up his guts. Hangovers must suck. Majorly. "Seriously. I." He makes a retching sound, looking even more tempted to puke than before, but forcefully swallows it down, just like the last dozen times.

"You do realise that your body is trying to upchuck the poisonous dosage?" I ask. Neon holds up a finger and _calmly_ stumbles out of the room. Chuckling follows him out. "I gotta hand it to him. Can't hold his liquor, but fuck did he hold his own."

"Fight?" Nikos asks, eyes narrowed. I'm not sure why she and JNPR are here—well, it is breakfast, so it makes sense we're all in the mess hall. But why are they…here-here? Like, sitting beside me kind of here.

"Yeah, Ivory." Tiff gets on my case. Again. "Why don't you tell everyone the tale of how you encouraged your teammate to punch someone when he was too intoxicated to know it was a bad idea?" Wenge is too busy chuckling and scratching his jawline to do much of anything, so she should know I give no fucks.

"You got in a bar fight?" Arc asks, practically jumping over his breakfast to get closer to me. I shove his stupid face back into his seat—with a swift jab—with the sole of my boot. So, not a kick. And if my footprint marked bright red on his face is an issue, he shouldn't get so fucking close to me.

"No," I say, glaring at Arc to warn him I don't want him that close to me again. When I'm satisfied he'll behave, my leg phase down through the table, and I cross my legs at the ankles. "We didn't get into a bar fight. Some jackass was flirting with our waitress long after she made it clear she wasn't interested, and I happened to suggest that he has a penchant for sucking equestrian phalluses in his spare time. He took exception to that." Violently so. But I got our waitress's number, so I'm good.

"Ugh. Leave it to a DeWitt to be so—"

"Schnee," I warn her I'm not in the mood. I don't even need to hear what it is. She could round off by saying 'saintly', 'elegant', or even 'making-my-panties-wet gorgeous' and she'd still piss me off.

"Arrogant. Egotistical. And pedestrian." She glares at me—or is that a sneer?

"Ive." Wenge grabs my shoulder, knowing I'm more than ready to bitch-slap the little shit. "Let me handle this?"

"There's nothing to handle." I cut my pancake into little pieces and slather it in apple syrup. Neon's plate sits there, opposite me. He won't have the patience to do much of anything other than shove the food in his face, so I take his plate and cut his pancakes with his fork and knife—I dunno if he likes syrup, after all.

"Schnee, don't pick fights you can't win," Wenge says, understanding perfectly what the situation is. "And no, Jaune, it wasn't a bar fight. It was in a café. And the man was being utterly disrespectful." Not to mention the anti-Faunus bullshit. "On top of that, the manager was so apologetic to us, we dined all night on the house." Hence why Neon is hung-over. You just can't offer people like us anything free and not expect us to go to town on it.

Speaking of. Neon staggers back our way and collapses into his seat. I prick a few piece of his pancake onto his fork, lay said utensil on its side, and slide the plate over to him, pouring him some more tea, just in case.

"Sip," I say, offering him the weakly steeped flowery bullshit Tiff picked out, "and be careful. It's hot." Neon grumbles his thanks, and blows into his mug. Well, he isn't sending a spray of piping hot liquid everywhere.

"Careful, Ivory, or people will start thinking you have a heart." Tiff cocks an eyebrow, clearly suggesting I'm being nice to our teammate, or worse.

Soft, open-mouthed chewing draws the table's attention back to Neon. The playfulness in his eyes hints he's doing it on purpose—the disgust in Schnee's eyes announces who the intended audience is.

"Syrup?" I ask, offering to pour it for him.

He grumbles something with his mouth more than a little full, and a speck happens to catch the ice princess right on the forehead. He can't hit the broadside of a barn shooting, so I know that's purely coincidence. Funny as all hells, though.

Schnee's usually pale face is bright red, looking about ready to erupt. She looks...perturbed? I'd offer to cool her off with an ice blast, but I'm half certain Wenge will get on my case for it. Not that it'd improve her mood any—at least, not any more than Xiao Long and Belladonna struggling to not snicker.

Rose, on the other hand. She almost doubles over cackling her uniform-clad ass off. Hmm. Maybe that's why Schnee doesn't get along with her? Not my problem.

"Was that a yes?" I hold out the bottle of syrup.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Prime the engine; I click up the four engine primers, letting the system boot the proper sequence. A soft hum starts up as the aircraft vibrates, sending a tingling through me. I don't know why no one takes this course—it's addicting. If Peach keeps that…_thing_…in check, that is.

With a final switch clicked up, the windshield armour slides up, revealing a poor rendition of Beacon in all her _glory_—she looks like some brat was playing with lego and tried to make a tower. I strap in, ready for take-off.

"Did you contact the tower?" Professor Peach asks. I roll my eyes, knowing full well that's bullshit—the co-pilot's job, if ever there was one. Or anyone's job other than me, because I will slit that oversized sperm's throat and shit on the wound.

My headset claps down, the chatter of the other students already half-assing their way through protocol.

"Northern Storm to Beacon Tower. Engine is primed and purring, requesting clearance for flight plan golf six romeo two four, over."

**"Beacon Tower to Northern Storm. I've received no such flight plan, over."** Winchester. Of fucking course that Grade A jackass is the one to pull that stunt.

"Northern Storm to Beacon Tower. I sent it twenty minutes ago, and got the confirmation of arrival. Over." I glare over my shoulder at Professor Peach, warning her that I will kick that fuckwit's ass from here to Mantle if he keeps this up.

**"Beacon Tower to Northern Storm. I've received no such flight plan, over." **

"You're an incompetent fuckwit, Beacon Tower. Readying for take-off according to protocol zulu romeo six subsection four dash niner. Thanks for proving why I need to learn this shit, asshole. Northern Storm, over and out." I clap up my headset, and go back to ignoring the pointless chatter—though it sounds like everyone's laughing, for some odd reason. I can't even tell if that's through the headset or the paper-thin aluminium 'walls' of the flight simulator.

I slide the throttle forward, hearing the engine rev up. My steering wheel pulls back and the screen shows a choppy and blocky rendering of a clearly underwhelming take-off. I slowly spin the wheel to the right, seeing Vale load one lego-building at a time, so I slide the wing-actuator up into a forty-five degree angle, letting my 'air bus' build up forward momentum and altitude in one go.

It's a slow, meandering flight. Making sure I stick to the altitude and heading I planned out at all times is a bit tedious, but better than dying—if this were an actual flight.

Once I'm above the clouds, I rev up the engines to max and cross my legs at the knees. Every other minute or so, I check my gauges and GPS position to ensure I'm both on schedule and where I should be.

My engines cut out, all four of them. System shows nothing's wrong. Sabotage. I'm definitely kicking Winchester's ass again.

I click all four primers down and click them right back up. Altitude shows I'm going down, fast; faster than my screen agrees with. Faulty systems. Not a common thing, but fine. I prime the engines and start them right back up, take out my scroll and open my flight-assistant app. Of course, it shows I'm still very much in Beacon—logically, I'd be worried if it didn't. But the point is that I show Professor Peach I'm not playing. This isn't a game; this is an easy fall-back to getting a regular pay check.

Pitch and yew monitors are fucked, so I eyeball it best I can. As long as I stay above the cloud-line, I am unlikely to crash.

The symbol in the top right corner of my screen shows the speed is no longer 1:1.

"Professor. I'm going to fuck that asshole up." With a fire-dust-infused foot-long dildo, and no lube.

"How so?" she asks, her tone even. She must be used to me, because no one else tolerates my tongue.

"Fucking with my systems is good practice. Fucking with protocol is good practice. Fucking with time speed to skew my calculations is not good practice. All that does is show how little he cares about this simulation." At least there aren't any grimm in my fucking cargo bay this time. Or leviathans to contend with. Sigh—little miracles. I'm grateful for the sunshine, and all the flowers growing where I'll bury Winchester.

She says nothing. I roll my eyes, dividing the time needed by the speed of the 'time' in this stupid simulation Winchester is clearly fucking with. A-fucking-gain.

At the twenty minute mark, by my estimation, I should be entering Mistral airspace. I clap my headset down again. "Haven Tower this is the Northern Storm. I have faulty systems and do not trust any and all readings given. Requesting assisted landing and someone other than that dropped on his head as a baby Winchester to walk me in. Over."

**"Affirmative, Northern Storm."** Neon's voice rings through my headset. Thank the gods. Time slips back down into 1:1, but the systems are all still giving me these shit readings—placing me back in Beacon at three-hundred metres below sea level. **"I got you. On my mark, begin descent at two metres per second holding current forward speed. Over."**

"Beginning descent at two metres per second and holding current forward speed on your mark. Over." It's a long, quiet moment. Just me and the humming of the faux-engines.

**"Mark."** I dip the nose. **"That's it's. What's your current throttle?"**

"Eighty percent forward, four engines purring."

**"Ease back to sixty percent forward and turn to your ten o'clock, over."**

"Easing back to sixty percent forward and turning to my ten." I ease the throttle back and turn until that funny little black spot in my screen is dead ahead. "Over."

**"You're doing good. Hold current speed and descent. You'll come out of the clouds in just under a minute. You should see the city all lit up. Mind the southern wind, but I'm taking that into my calculations. Over."**

"Roger."

**"Northern Storm. I've got plans for a night on the town. I'm dragging you with me when this is over, over."**

"Get me on the ground safe and drinks are on me, over." Laughter, amused and airy. Neon sounds like he's enjoying this. The sight of a city finally loads. Buildings scattered throughout the gully, with three large hills acting as a natural barrier around the place. It looks idyllic, especially with the last rays of sunlight painting a gothic picture for me. "Tower, we've got a problem. I don't see your red light district anywhere, over."

All I get is laughter, mixed with some words I can't quite make out.

**"Mistral doesn't advertise it, Northern Storm. You should see the runway at your eleven-thirty, over. Near the top of the hill."**

"Negative, Tower. All I see is random lights. Holding on current descent and speed, over." The stupid slow ass backwater simulator finally loads the fucking runways lights. "Correction, Tower. I have your india niner four at my eleven-thirty, over."

**"Perfect. You are flying a papa four six airbus, please confirm for landing protocol, over."**

"Papa four six airbus, two seven one eight model, affirmative. If this wasn't an ass-backwards simulation my scroll could have helped quite a bit. Over." I should be coming in from the north-east, so the southern wind is going to nudge me to the left. I offer a slight right-wards course correction to counter the wind.

**"Northern Storm, ease throttle back to forty percent, over."**

"Easing back to forty percent throttle, over." I pull back the throttle again. The runway lights are practically under me, but I need to trust Neon for this.

**"Angle wings to eight five degrees, over."** Ah, he's bringing me in for a slow vertical descent. That makes sense.

"Angling wings to eight five degrees." I pull back the wing actuator, holding my wheel with one hand, knowing I'm going to need that sucker more than anything. With the engines at forty percent, I should be dropping at just under two metres per second now. Not the most graceful landing, but well within safety protocols for this model. "Over."

I keep an eye on the lights, correcting the wings and steering to make sure they stay as stable as possible. The space between the lights steadily grows. I should be at a hundred and fifty metres, give or take.

**"Altitude one two five metres. Descent two point zero metres per second. Hold current trajectory. Be ready to increase forward throttle to fifty percent on my mark, over."**

"Holding current trajectory." I grab my steering wheel between my thighs to keep her steady and correct as needed, using my now freed hand to grab the throttle. "Ready to increase forward throttle to fifty percent on your mark, over."

My legs twist and turn the wheel, keeping the rising lights as steady as possible, my left hand easing the wing-angle back and forth to use my every system to my advantage.

**"Mark."** I slide the throttle up to half-power. Not a second later, my screen shakes and my seat trembles with it. **"Cut engines. Drinks are on you, Ive."**

I ease the throttle back to zero and flap my wings down all the way. Engines cut out and I click down the primers. "Fuck yeah it is. Not bad, Neon. Not bad at all."

**_8-8_**

* * *

"I need two volunteers," Goodwitch says, looking around with her usual dispassion. The amphitheatre, per the norm, is full of first-years, and everyone is eagerly hoping they won't be picked. This is just the place and time to show off, and that means being singled out—or worse, being pitted against someone better than you and embarrassing yourself. "Anyone?"

"I will." Winchester struts up onto the little dais, his oversized dildo propped up onto his shoulder, needing only some lube to get himself ready to be fucked.

"And his opponent?" Goodwitch looks around, but no one seems interested. Fighting the school bully is something everyone should be falling over themselves to face. And yet, no one seems willing—maybe it's his tactics? "Come now, students. You have a field trip tomorrow. If I cannot trust you in combat, you will not be going, by definition."

A solid minute goes by, not a word spoken, and no volunteer steps up.

"Very well. Ms DeWitt." Of fucking course. "Consider yourself today's involuntary volunteer."

I look to Wenge; he wordlessly begs me to be nice. "Drinks are on me. We'll even go to Twinkles." Well, that waitress has been asking why she hasn't seen us lately. Why can I never remember her name?

Sigh. Fuck it. Fine.

I trudge over to the stairs, and lumber up them. Scroll slips up out of my pocket and opens, loading my aura monitoring app. Hoodie pulls up over my buzz cut, and blots my vision. My physical vision, at least.

"Ms DeWitt," Goodwitch sounds as exasperated as I feel, "I will start this match whether you're paying attention or not."

"Hey, Neon," I intone and turn my nose in my team's direction. "Gum me?" A little silver wrapper flies my way, even though I shouldn't technically be able to see it. I catch it between my fingers, hold my hand up, and phase the wrapper off the watermelon flavoured rubber so it falls into my mouth. The wrapper itself crumbles and gets stuffed in my pocket for later.

I should do something nice for Neon. He's an asshole, to be sure, but an asshole I can depend on.

An annoyed sigh. Goodwitch seems more than a little irritated with me, again. "Begin!"

Winchester practically flies at me, mace swinging up for an uppercut. I jump and spin, lashing a roundhouse kick right against his chin and spinning him like a top, sending him tumbling away from me. And just to make sure he understands his place in the world, I close the aura monitoring app, and switch to a game of Sudoku.

Let's see. Three, six, two. The first block has only the top three filled in, so it's impossible to guess the other slots. But, that does mean the first line should have some clues for the other blocks…

A jab, right for the sternum. Hmm. Maybe Winchester is more skilled that his poor attitude lets on. A shame I let him phase right through me, and kick his ankle just as he's about to put his weight on it. He goes tumbling again, not making so much as a grunt of complaint or pain.

The scene around me flickers monochrome green, everything rendered in an utterly uninspired wire-mesh style that barely gives me any information at all. Still, it's enough to sense where all the moving parts are—maybe I should switch out the…

My opponent rockets towards me, faster this time and making an exaggerated grunt of exertion along with a baseball bat swing, so I kick him right in the throat and send him right back into his little corner he just crawled out of, just as fast.

I press the cell and input a five as the whole class starts murmuring about something. Don't much care what. Hmm. I haven't blown a bubble since my piercing—does the tongue piercing make it impossible? It shouldn't.

**_8-8_**

* * *

What in the flying fuck did I do this time?

Stepping into the lift, finger presses the button for Ozpin's office, and the door slides closed. The 'room' shivers as the sinking feeling in my gut tells me I'm on my way up. Soft eggshell white metal laid bare, with a soft violet carpet underfoot. Not sure why everyone so loves these odd colours everywhere, but it's better than the unending snow, or the grimm we've been dealing with. Smells better than grimm, too.

Door slides open, revealing Ozpin in his weird chair, fingering his strangely shaped dark glasses up onto his nose-perch. "Thank you for coming, Ms DeWitt. Please." He motions to the empty seat opposite him. The room is spacious—the penthouse office usually is, but this place is fit for royalty. Pillars hold up the lofty ceiling, the desk looks like it's part of the clock looming behind him as it tick-tick-ticks into infinity.

Jackboots clap on the marble-like floor as I march over to him and plop into my seat. There's no one here—none but us, that is. And I'm, unfortunately, unarmed. If this one turns out to be some perverted old man looking for cheap thrills, I'll rip his throat out. Or maybe test how effective my hard-light crystal's attack is on human flesh.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here. Especially on a Saturday afternoon." Ozpin peers over his shades, his dispassionate gaze piercing right through me. Silver hair with ebon highlights seems to dance from his every little motion.

I cross my legs at the knees and sandwich my hands between my thighs. "Professor Peach complaining about my foul mouth, Professor Goodwitch complaining about me manhandling Winchester again, Professor Oobleck complaining about calling him out on the incorrect assertion that Mantle was built on the slave trade. Winchester complaining about my continually besting him in combat training, Schnee complaining that I don't grovel at her feet, the usual random plebe making up stories I can easily disprove."

"None of the above." He cocks an eyebrow ever so slightly and takes a long pull at his coffee. Mug clanks onto the glass desktop; he props his elbows up and folds his hands. "I have three riddles."

He's the headmaster. Cooperating now is for the Lien of tomorrow. "Alright."

"You're in a sealed room with six people. A Menagerie Faunus, an Atlesian general, a Vale baker, a Vacuo peddler, a Mistral debutant, and yourself. You were pickpocketed. Who did it?"

"Not enough information," I say. Fucking no-brainer, but his blank look tells me he needs more than that. I shrug, unsure what else there is to say.

"Second riddle. You're in a room with four doors. One is locked, the second is unlocked, the third is open. The final is the door you entered and has armed guards on the other side. You're unarmed and need to escape. What's your plan?"

"What're the parameters of me being there?"

He cocks an eyebrow and drags his mug in front of him, raising it to his lips and taking another long pull. His green eyes never waver from me. "Third riddle." That wasn't my answer, asshole. "A known philanthropist offers you more Lien than you could spend in your lifetime, in exchange for one job. No details are offered, no questions will be entertained. Do you take the job, and why?"

"No. Any offer that sounds too good to be true, is."

Ozpin rights his wire-framed shades and slurps from his mug. This man is way too fucking good at making no sense. "Interesting."

For the Lien of tomorrow, for the Lien of tomorrow, for the Lien of tomorrow.

"Violet informs me you're her best pilot."

Eyes narrow, head jerks back. Professor Peach? What does me being a quick learner have to do with…? Huntsmen academy, headmaster is interested in me being a good pilot, asking questions to gauge my personality. This asshole has me on his radar for some serious bullshit. No doubt in my mind. "Professor?"

"Yes, Ms DeWitt?"

"Have you ever heard of a Mantle Breakfast?" I ask, meeting his unblinking gaze.

"Is that where you eat what you've killed the night before?" He seems, if anything, amused with me. The lift pings, doors open. The clicking of heels on the floor; I know that staccato.

"This," I glance over my shoulder, finding Goodwitch's familiar form sauntering over, "is where you start explaining. Correct?"

"Ms DeWitt," Ozpin clanks his mug on his desk again, somehow the sound grates on me this time, "if I didn't summon you. Who do you think I would have summoned in your stead?"

Huntsmen Academy. He would've selected the absolute best. Nikos is the only one I can imagine he'd send for instead of me. It's the why he isn't telling me. And yet, Goodwitch sits on the edge of Ozpin's desk, facing me, peering over her glasses at me in much the same way as the man himself.

"Your face is always kept blank, Ms DeWitt," Ozpin says, smiling, "but your eyes tell the most epic of tales as to where you are mentally. You know it's Ms Nikos I would have summoned. You know you're not in trouble, but that this meeting represents trouble. And, you've already weighed risk versus reward and haven't left. Am I right?"

I glare at Ozpin. He chuckles, somehow finding humour where there ought be none.

"Tell me, Ivory." Ozpin pours himself more coffee, the fancy pot almost reminding me of those old tales grandma used to tell me—of the good ol' days, of better times. "How does choosing between wearing shoes and eating relate to me?"

My eyebrow cocks, the corners of my mouth curl down.

"That is what Mantle Breakfast really means," he continues, "is it not? Eating one's shoes, choosing between one necessity and another?"

The hard-light crystal rubs against the roof of my mouth, soothing my irritation best I can. "Why did you summon me, professor?"

"What's your favourite fairy tale?" Ozpin asks, as if it's the most natural question in the world. My eyes narrow. "Fairy tale? Surely you remember one from your childhood."

"The longest night," I say. How will you handle that, oh uninspired one?

"Curious, that you should mention that one." I jerk back, but Ozpin only looks more amused. "Hailing from Mantle, I sure you have your own variant. Would you regale us?"

I shake my head, trying to figure out what reality I woke up in this morning. A tale of cannibalism, raping grimm, and a perverse race we call the Atlesian. Not something told in polite company. "I am entirely too sober." Ozpin and Goodwitch share a look, but not one I can decode. I stand. "Will that be all, Professor?"

"What if I told you." Ozpin can't read social cues to save his life. I cross my arms, shifting my weight to one leg. "That story is entirely true?"

"The Kingdom of Atlas is only—"

"Sixty years old," he cuts me off, "but that story has been around, in one form or another, for the better part of two thousand years. Is that right, Ms DeWitt?"

My jaw squares, fists ball.

"The events of that story took place long ago, as you well know. In fact, I'd bet you know more about it than any, considering your lineage?" Nobility means fuck-all in the slums; it neither puts food on the table nor lines people's wallets. "Would you believe me if I told you I was there?" He says that with a straight face? Oh, come the fuck off it.

Another I-was-your-ancestor-in-another-life claimant. Wow, never dealt with one of those before. Now I know I'm entirely too sober. "There are no riches to inherit. No lands to lay claim to. I am noble in name only, and in Atlas that's not worth the paper it's written on."

Ozpin smiles and pulls out a mug from nowhere and pours it half-full from that fanciful china teapot. "Coffee?"

I don't ask; I leave.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Ms DeWitt." Professor Goodwitch puts her hand on her hip and shifts her weight to the same leg. I phase Moon and Sun through my locker, hanging them in the little hooks by feel alone. "A word, if I may?"

"Cunnilingus," I intone. Wenge snickers, elbowing me for some reason. I roll my eyes as I phase my uniform out of my locker, and turn my full attention to the blonde. "Yes, professor?"

Soft green eyes flicker right to left, over and over, as if searching for something in my gaze. "Where did you learn to fly?"

"Here at Beacon." I thought it was obvious. In my first lesson, I crashed seconds after take-off—no doubt thanks to that incessant ass. Peach surely would have reviewed that shit-show.

Her eyes narrow, lips curl downwards. She thinks I'm lying. Of course. What's the excuse this time? That it should take X hours to get that good, and my logged time is Y fraction thereof? That a Mantle guttersnipe could never amount to anything? That the fortunes I never had must have paid for lessons I didn't take elsewhere?

I shake my head and walk off. People like that seriously piss me off.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The Forever Fall Forest. Most of our year is here, meandering along behind Goodwitch. Not really sure what this whole 'sap collecting thing' is about, but it seems to have gone so poorly that Winchester had a run-in with an ursai—a single fucking ursai. And for some reason Arc's cheek is bruised.

Fucking idiots.

We walk along, the sun low on the horizon. It's Friday, so we'll probably do a Vale trip tonight. Get some booze in my system, maybe get a clit on my tongue. That'd be nice. And hopefully that waitress really is into girls—definitely plan on finding out.

"What'd you sign up for?" I ask Wenge as we enter the school.

"Huh?" A bushy eyebrow cocks, but we don't break stride as we make our way

"Well. You picked flying for me. What'd you pick?"

"I picked…? Ive. When have I ever picked your electives?" I roll my eyes; certainly don't remember picking it myself. "Anyway. Didn't pick any. Figure I need to focus on coming up with strategies for us during team training."

"Tch." Tiff shakes her head, disgusted. Oh boy. That means she picked flying for me and likely Neon as well. Not that she could ever admit openly that's what happened—hacking is, strictly speaking, highly illegal.

"Lemme guess," Neon smirks at the team's…mascot, "you picked cheerleading." I snort, not disagreeing with him. Tiff's great in a fight, as long as she doesn't get in over her head; and her fucking modus operandi is just that—fuck shit up and the team'll bail her the fuck out.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tiff sneers, ready to grow horns and forked tail.

Sigh. Whatever. "I say we hit Twinkles tonight," I suggest. "Get shitfaced. Get laid. And take tomorrow easy. Get back to training day after."

"Ivory." A familiar blonde saunters my way. Her hands, and no doubt that riding prong of hers, are held behind her back, with me in her crosshairs. Professor Goodwitch looks pissed, for some reason. And I certainly did nothing to earn that. "My office. Right now."

Sigh. Always more bullshit in my life.

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Four_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Thank you for your patience, guys. I'm not very far with it, so it's been slow going.  
_**

**_At any rate. Lemme know what you think ^_^_**


	5. V1:C5—Fly-girl blues

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume One, Chapter Five—Fly-girl blues**_

_**8-8**_

* * *

Arms cross behind my back, shoulders tuck back—which of course juts out my humble A-cups like a cat's claws. Not that Goodwitch is apt to notice as she paces to and fro; the only other occupant of the spacious office. Though my eyes stare dead ahead, it's hard to ignore to soft violet walls, the faux-wooden flooring, or her desk is riddled with piles of papers, which makes me wonder what's in the filing cabinets.

The staccato of her heels clicking as she goes is all the sound that reaches me. She needs me in her office, it needs to happen now. And yet, not a word is said.

"Ivory." Her pacing comes to a halt with her back to me. "I need to have a serious discussion with you. And that means your sass and sarcasm will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." Being clear isn't the same as being heeded. But at least this meeting seems to be hitting productive waters from the start.

Pacing starts up again. "Everything you do seems related to making money. Why is that?"

I blink. That's a strange question to ask. "I fail to see how that line of questioning is relevant to my training as a huntress," I say.

"Very well. Allow me to explain. In Vacuo and Mistral, there's a recurring problem with corrupt huntsmen. In Atlas, there's a problem with the military recruiting huntsmen into their ranks as…_specialists_." Goodwitch turns to face me. "How can I be certain you will not follow the same path?" And yet Winchester and his goons are allowed in this academy? Really?

"If you seek assurance I will blindly follow orders," I cock an eyebrow, "you will be disappointed."

"No," Goodwitch says and walks over to her desk and leans onto it, her green eyes taking in every inch of me. She lays her clasped hands against her thighs. A though races through her eyes, but I don't know her well enough to decode it. "That isn't what this is about."

"I am not on your time," I frown, "you are on mine. So if there is a point, make it."

"This is exactly my point, Ivory." Goodwitch holds up her hands and counts off as she goes. "You don't take orders from anyone. You focus solely on Lien."

"And Cardin Winchester openly bullies every student he can, while you, as an academy, do nothing." I ball my fists, my brow furrowed. Don't come preaching to my failings are when you so clearly ignore yours and everyone else's.

"Cardin is a grave disappointment to himself. But he, and students like him, force others to grow in ways no lesson plan could ever cover." Goodwitch motions to me. "Just look at your growth in the flight simulator. In just over a month, you went from a rookie to harnessing skills most seasoned pilots can't claim to possess."

"And look at the dropout rate." I sneer. "We're down to six students, from the twenty-seven we started with. Four of which are on Winchester's team. How are you not seeing that it's assholes like that that end up being the corrupt huntsmen you speak of?"

"Because it's huntsmen that take side jobs…" Goodwitch trails off, stubbornly not looking away. Somehow, she looks thoughtful, like she sees something I do not. "Do you think I would take my personal time to argue with Cardin how he could become a better hunter? Let alone a better person."

Sigh. I shake my head, disgusted with her. "And the dropout rate? How will you put a positive spin on that?"

"Why should I have to?" she asks. I jerk back, eyes narrowing. "If students will not rise above the challenges they face, then the title of huntsman is not for them. Or do you think the grimm will be nice about it when they're out in the field?"

Sigh. I hate how right she is—not that I'm going to admit that out loud. "I'm focused on Lien, because I need to eat. Because Wenge's family needs to eat. Even if I don't pass the final exams, I need to be able to put food on the table. So, I push myself to accrue skills that will turn a profit no matter where the chips land. When I have my hunter's licence, it will no longer be needed, because I'll be allowed to work fulltime. And if I'm injured, or wish to retire, I have other skills to fall back on. Does that satisfy the inquisition?"

Goodwitch just sits there, quiet. For a long. Long. Moment.

"What happened to your family?"

"Are you seducing me?" I ask, my tone neutral.

She's quiet for a bit; as if biding her time, carefully weighing her options. Her gaze never once wavers from mine, but I can't read her any better now, than previously. "No."

I turn and walk towards the door, hands still neatly crossed behind my back.

"Ivory." I pause, but don't turn to her. "You don't have to be afraid of me."

Lacquered wood fades into sandy brown as I phase through her office door. As I unphase in the empty hallway, I finally notice I can't feel my fingers from how tightly I've been gripping my upper arms.

I really need a drink.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Dim violet and electric blue lights. A smoke-filled room filled with tall and slim tables, meant to stand around. Soft Reggae playing in the background. Glasses clink as people toast to whatever Friday night plans they have. The dance floor, tiny from this angle, is trampled with arrhythmic patrons who I honestly can't tell if they're dancing or having a collective seizure. Annoyed with the scene, I turn away from the railing, away from the view of the lower level, and back to the table the club owner insisted was reserved for us on arrival.

Café. Psh. It's a singles bar, and Wenge knows it. One of the few places on the promenade where the wait staff treats Faunus as just another patron.

Our waitress saunters over to our table, her ashen wolf's tail swaying to the music as she unloads our latest round. Her black pants outfit offers only a tantalizing hint as to the secrets hidden beneath, and her white apron wrapped tightly around her and covering her front from navel to shin glows from the light show. But it's her yellow eyes that draw me in, how they practically glow; her eyes and that toothy little smile as she sets a beer flagon in front of me.

"They behaving themselves?" I ask. She offloads an order of fries and chicken fingers, with a tray filled with three dip sauces, her chest and hand shivering from laughter.

"Maybe." She sets my chicken sandwich in front of me, with the top slice set aside, per the norm in these settings. Curiously, the orange sauce is drawn on in the shape of a heart. The same sauce she knows I like on my sandwich—the same sauce the order doesn't come with. And suddenly she can't look me in the eye.

"Just maybe?" I ask, unclipping Moon's strap. Ember giggles, her gaze softening as she sets a stack of napkins on the rectangular table for me—and the others, but those traitors abandoned me to go look for some fun. "Whose ass am I kicking?"

She covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes lit up with mischief. "I'll let you know if it comes to that."

"You do that. When's your break?"

"I SAID STOP!" I glare in the direction of the shouting. Not even waiting for the invite, I phase through the table and Ember in one go, and make my way over to the railing. Three humans surround a woman with goat horns jutting out from her temples, each of her would-be assailants armed—one arming sword on hip, one simple staff held diagonal on his back, the last has a tonfa on each thigh. One of the assholes, the tonfa-wielder, holds up his hands, as if in surrender. I know that song and dance, so I vault over the railing, landing almost soundlessly behind him—the music is loud enough to mask that, at least.

My hand lands on the shit-for-brains' shoulder. He tenses instantly, looking over to find who it is. He smirks when he sees me, for some reason.

"Sorry, doll. Didn't—"

"Are these people bothering you, miss?" I ask, my tone cold and voice carrying through the cavernous hall. The woman, perhaps in her early twenties, looks fearful, her eyes grateful but pleading that this won't escalate any further.

My grip tightens, my fingertips dig into his faux leather jacket—his face twinges from the pain, but he tries to soldier through it. Typical tough guy bravado. My knee rams behind his and he kneels before me, if facing my right.

Neon's just schmoozing his way over to the bar, for some reason. Tiff has her hand on the door, ready for the ejection. And Wenge is standing by the stairs, ready to back me up. We're ready.

"I will say this only once." Even as I speak, my eyes survey the crowd. They're a huntsmen team, so we're missing the leader. I spot the ass over at the bar, ordering something. That's a collapsed sniper's rifle strapped to his back, after all. And that's conveniently where Neon is just trying to talk over the sniper's order, frustrating the situation best he can. "Pay your bill and leave, or you'll be seen out."

"Yo, chill." The sword and shield fuckwit thinks his team can take me. "We're huntsmen, here for the Vytal—"

I unsheathe Sun and slide her blade across tonfa-shit's neck, gentle enough that even if he doesn't activate his aura, I still wouldn't draw blood. Moon slips up out of her holster, her safety clicks off, though she's not aimed at anyone, yet. "Yo, Azul! These asshats pay their tab?!"

The bartender gives me the thumbs-up. Sun clicks into her snake form and wraps around tonfa-shit; I fling his worthless ass to Tiff, and he neatly fits through the door, tumbling out into the promenade and causing quite the scene as he splashes into the fountain.

Sword-'n-shield and wears-dick-symbol-on-back reach for their weapons, but Wenge easily picks them up and flings them like skipping stones across a glassy lake, right past Tiff. The dumbshit by the bar reaches for his rifle, but the short sword against his throat, courtesy of Neon, suggests that maybe he's in over his head.

"Alright alright," the sniper says and holds up his hands in surrender. "I'll leave." Neon spins and rams his armoured knee in the fucker's cheek, sending him to Tiff, if at the wrong angle. Tiff's pogo catches the ugly mug and ricochets him into his buddies, sending the four of them splashing right back into the fountain. From the sudden yellow flash, it's safe to assume they're also being electrocuted.

I engage my safety, holster and sheathe, but the woman looks all the more jittery. "Are you alright, miss?" I ask. The woman smiles, hollow and teary-eyed—it doesn't take a genius to figure out she's about ready to break down. Two women, one with cat ears and the other with feathery wings, come running, hugging their friend and asking if she's alright. She's in good hands. "Yo, Azul! Hook these ladies up. Put it on my tab."

"You got it, Ive!" I motion them towards the bar and walk around them so they understand the situation has been dealt with.

Ember stands at the foot of the stairs, hugging her round tray and her eyes dilating as I approach. "I. I'm on my break?" I smile and offer my elbow to escort her. "Uh, lemme just." She looks down at her tray.

I step up to her and slowly, gently, take the offending item. With little more than a glance, to confirm there's nothing in the way, I flick her tray onto the bar some ten metres away. It lands and stops cold, right on the stack of other trays.

"So, Ember. Your real name, or something you use so people can't look you up?" She swats me, playful even as she tries to look stern. I'm so getting lucky tonight.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Team WITE stands outside Twinkles, the promenade all lit up with banners of 'Welcome to Vale' and little lights decorating every tree. The other clubs and cafes buzz with the Friday crowd, with a few of the stores closed—the exception to the rule that every store on the promenade doubles as a night club of some sort.

Wenge keeps chatting up this little pretty-boy with fox ears that found us after our earlier incident. Neon picked up some cute arm candy—a bit on the ditzy side, but she's super sweet and keeps doting on him. For her part, Tiff is quite enjoying snuggling up to the bouncer—huge for a human, almost Wenge-sized.

Twinkles' door swings open, and a hooded figure strolls out, her wolf's tail tucked between her legs for some reason. I narrow my eyes as I walk over to her, hands held wide to show my empty palms—both as a wordless invite for a hug, and a sign I'm no threat. Her hands hide behind her back, her eyes flicker to the woman nestled between Neon's arms.

Ember's street clothes are…a bit ratty. Not the stylish fashionista Neon's into, or the nerdy good-girl that is Tiff. Ember looks…well, like I'm slumming, with her orange Ambrosia jeans faded and worn, and her peach long-sleeve hoodie. That they look second-hand certainly isn't helping her ego any, even when comparing it to my outfit. Hells, even her bargain bin pistol in her worn leather leg holster looks like it's seen better days, with its patches of rust that make me wonder if the damn thing'll fire.

I stop just outside Ember's personal space, arms still wide and asking for my hug. She finally meets my gaze, her eyes troubled. Everything about her screams she doesn't feel she's good enough.

"My teammates are assholes," I say, though Team WITE is quick to disagree with me—as are their tag-alongs, "but you're safe with us. I promise."

Ember peers up at me at last, her yellow eyes watery. She looks down at her outfit, almost as if asking why I'm not turned off. I smile and take the final step, wrapping my arms around her waist as I murmur, "Don't you dare be embarrassed for giving your parents most of your salary."

She pulls back, eyes wide, jaw low.

Offering a rakish grin instead of silly words, I pull her right back into my arms. Won't lie, feeling her breasts against mine sends a shiver of pleasure through me—humble A-cups, like mine, but I'm eager for a proper introduction.

Half a head shorter than me, and lithe—she fits so perfectly in my arms. Her ashen hair smells of mangos, feeling silky against my cheek. Her arms slither up mine and drape around my shoulders, her head lies against me as tension escapes her in a breathy sigh.

"Sage," Ember whispers, as if telling me all her secrets at once. "Sage Delftenaar."

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Good morning, class." Professor Goodwitch stands on the dais, looking up at us on the balcony with her oversized scroll in hand, glowing from whatever it is that she's accessing this time. "As you've no doubt noticed, we have students from other academies in attendance. As such, I will remind you all, you are ambassadors. Do not embarrass yourself, your academy, or your home nation."

Ever the motivational speaker. She must have learned it from Ozpin.

"To welcome our guests, we'll be moving onto one-versus-many spars. We'll do this by the following method. For each spar, a single challenger may dictate the terms. Be that one-on-one. One-on-many. Or many-on-one. As for the many-on-one, you are advised, at least in the beginning, to almost tag out during your spar, to allow for greater chances to victory. This isn't about playing fair, though. It's about survival. As long as you stop attacking who I say, when I say so, it's all fair game. So let's start with one of our better combatants." Goodwitch pretends to look at her scroll, as if she didn't already plan who was going to be picked. "Ms DeWitt."

Of fucking course. Sigh. I vault the railing and roll with my landing.

"But to ensure you don't underperform." Sigh. "You'll face Team Ruby." Of all the…

I peer up at my team, only to find quaking shoulders and laughing eyes looking back. Assholes. Whatever. I saunter over to the middle of the amphitheatre.

"Aren't you going to pick a teammate for combat, Ms DeWitt?" Goodwitch asks, sounding as amused as those shitfaced baboons up there.

"No." I jerk my hoodie up over my buzz cut and stuff my hands into my pockets. The four girls come down, via the stairs—so of course it takes too fucking long. "Let's get this over with."

Rose looks nervous, as if she isn't sure how to really handle this. Not that I can see enough detail to know it's her, but the folded weapon on her lower back is a dead giveaway; as is the fidgety body language.

Rookie team, likely more accustomed to facing grimm than people. The only two I can imagine might work flawlessly together are the sisters—best to keep them separated. Schnee's pride means she thinks she's already won. Taking her out first, especially with those troublesome glyphs of hers, may prove vital.

"Combatants ready?" Goodwitch's amusement is really pissing me off. Team RWBY just stands there, obviously not ready. They've seen me fight, they know I'm ready. "Begin!"

Xiao Long rushes me, her bracers clicking into battle mode and covering her forearms completely. She likes fire attacks, works mainly with punches. Too reckless for her own good—that her old man didn't whack that outta her isn't my problem.

Blondie throws her first punch, leading with her right, so I sidestep to her right and move around to her back. Even with my seals, I see the power of her attack balloon out—roughly a metre in diameter. Hmm. She has two attacks with her gauntlets; a blast for short-range and a concentrated shot for long-range. She'd know my tactics best of the team, so she feels the most confident facing me. Makes sense, but at the same time, she doesn't understand how well I know her.

And of course, the three little piggies are just standing there.

Xiao Long spins around and punches right at my back. I go to the left this time and lash a kick right in her throat, knocking her back. She thinks this is in her advantage, of course. With anyone else, she'd be right. But her Semblance is only useful if she lands the hit.

Well, since the twiddling thumbs over there look left out, I saunter over in their direction.

Schnee shakes her head and unsheathes her rapier. "Always so arrogant," she sneers. I can't even fucking see her, but I'd have to be deaf to miss the acidity in her tone. Her glyph forms underfoot, the light bright enough to be impossible to miss. She's going to rocket for me, thinking that she and Xiao Long will corner me and score a hit.

The explosion behind me suggests Yellow is en route, the tension all too obvious in her shows she's already starting to get pissed off. They think I'll dodge, but they know I can phase through them. They don't know how to counter that, no one does. Not yet, and I'd rather keep it that way.

Dunno Belladonna well enough, but she doesn't strike me as the planner. Rose skipped two years—a weapons fanatic, from what little I know, but all else is a guess. She's never taken part in class spars either. Hmm. This could be interesting.

Xiao Long always comes with a right hook in these long shots, so I turn to blondie's right and nudge Schnee's rapier blade right into Xiao Long's path. Schnee's at least aware enough to not stab her teammate, but Xiao Long was already over-committed to the attack, and punches the silverette instead, sending her rocketing back to Rose.

"Temper, temper," I say as I kick out Yang's leg with my left, then spin and lash my right leg into her shoulder, sending her right along with her teammate. Shock is such a useful tool, if used correctly. But I won't catch her like that twice.

"Hey, Ive!" Wenge calls out. I turn my nose to him, though my eyes and seals don't detect him from here. "If you win this fight, we'll treat you and your Ms to dinner and a movie. Your pick which."

Hmm. It's Sage's day off. So I could try to confirm if that makes sense. I fish out my scroll and dial her number, slipping it under my hoodie and pressing it to my ear.

_"Hey,"_ Sage answers after the fourth ring. Team RWBY, and especially the top-heavy toddler, are just about frothing at the mouth with how little of my attention they're getting. _"I thought you were in class."_

"I am, actually," I say, amused with it all. "In the middle of a spar, but I have a minute." Blondie's getting all fired up, her eyes no doubt glowing like hellfire. But Schnee's pride is going to take the hardest hit. DeWitt-Schnee rivalry, with them being new money and all. "Ignore the gunshots. Those idiots think it'll help them."

Predictably, the four of them rain bullets down on me, but I hold out my hand and angle my palm to ricochet them away from me. Why don't people realise that ricocheting shots like that barely takes any aura? Rose's shots are slowest, given she has to manually ratchet, but they pack a punch. Belladona's are the fastest with her pistol-esque setup, but frankly, they take almost no effort to deflect. Xiao Long takes off right for me, and Schnee starts conjuring up her glyphs. Idiots. Do you really think I'd risk making a call to a potential love interest if I didn't think now was a good time?

"So listen," I get back to what's important, "Wenge has a proposition. If I win, he'll treat us to a night out. Dinner and a movie. With the team, of course, but I still figure discussing it with you before I agree just makes more—"

I jump over Xiao Long's explosive punch and jump well away from her predictable blast. Schnee wastes her hard-light dust in a kind of magic missile attack that is far too predictable, so dodging that isn't too hard.

"Sorry. Wanted to discuss with you before agreeing. You in?"

_"Gods, yes!"_ I smile, enjoying Sage's enthusiasm. _"But should you really be doing this now? They sound like they're trying to kill you."_

"Meh. They'll have to try harder than this." Xiao Long's aura becomes so much that it actually registers around her. Fuck, talk about petulance. You'd think I'd get used to that shit after four years, right? "Alright. You mind texting me what days work for you? I'll get back to—"

I jump, phase through Xiao Long's 'super-duper mega attack', land on her, kick off her head, sending her tumbling towards Schnee's lunge, tripping her up. Belladonna tries to sneak up behind me, so I round-house and kick her right in the kisser.

My eyes narrow. I'm not sure what just happened, but my foot is lodged in a Belladonna-shaped statue.

"I'll have to get back to you. Little shit got dirt on my boot."

Sage laughs, a little too amused to understand the repercussions. _"Alright, I'll text you so you can get back to me. Just don't get hurt, okay?"_

"Not promising the same for them." I hang up, stow my scroll, and phase my leg through the statue, taking a chunk of the head with me. Fucking thing solidified just as I unphased—dunno if that was timed or what, but respect. I do a round-house kick and phase, launching the stone right at the Atlesian shit's skull, tumbling her just as she was getting to her feet. Unsheathing Sun and unholstering Moon, I throw my head back, letting the scene come into focus. "Wenge! Fuck the deal."

I dash for Schnee and ram a knee into her spine, send her flying, spin, click Sun into her snake form and wrap around the bitch. Click off safety, jerk silverette to me, and blast four shots right in her throat.

With the added momentum, I fling my captive right at Belladonna.

A loud buzzing. "Ms Schnee is in the red!" Goodwitch calls it. One down.

Turn. Bite on the ice crystal, and blow sleet onto every surface around me. Only Schnee might stand a chance at being accustomed to walking on ice—not in those heels, but she stood the best chance. Climate's too temperate here to truly understand winter.

Rose calls out some stratagem, but it doesn't matter. They haven't figured out what I'm doing.

Belladonna comes at me from behind, slips on the ice, and gets a jackboot to the nose, sending her right back. Moon aims, shot after shot is fired, emptying the mag right into that…

I glance at the screen. Belladonna's at just under half. Good. You're getting my undivided attention, you are.

Mag clicks out, I toss it up and round-house kick it right for the toddler's sniper, knocking it aside just enough for her shot to get Xiao Long right in the face. Snake-Sun lashes out and grabs blondie, spinning her and launching her right at her sister, bowling the pair of them over. Did not think that through—keep them separated, you dunce!

I glance at the screen—blondie's at a third, red's well above half. Bite hard-light crystal. A cyan arrow flies out of my mouth and tears into blondie, too fast for her to deflect or dodge. Screen announces that takes three percent. Fuck, blondie's got juice in her. Belladonna won't take long to come up with a plan. Fuck this shit.

I holster Moon, and sheathe Sun. I take Sun out of my sash and click her up into rifle form, taking out an extended reg-mag. Won't need the scope for this range. Bite hard-light and blast an arrow for Belladonna just as she starts firing at me—pot shots, so she knows the ice and her heels won't mix well, and there's nothing to latch onto here for leverage. She was so smart that she avoided my attack, and still falls flat on her ass, practically impaling herself on the arrow shaft. Better hurry, that ditz is just itching to get herself into the red. Blondie takes two shots to each leg.

"Ms Xiao Long is in the red!" There goes your power hitter.

I jump over the ranged blade slash and fire two arrows right at Belladonna. One gets her in the shin, the other right in the face as she's kneeling. The power knocks her on her ass and winds her.

That just leaves the—

Shot after shot. I let them all phase through me and take my time aiming while she's being a complete fuckwit. I shoot her in the shoulder, which jerks her next shot off alignment, and shoots Belladonna in the chest just as she was labouring to her feet.

Ignore the 'Blake'—just like the other names getting called. Fuck them. Do they even understand how fucking hard it is to buy leather boots in this economy?! Fucking Mantelian leather!

Red gets a shot in the chest, knocking her back. No call. Another shot. No call. Another shot. Each time it knocks her back again.

"Ms Rose is in the red!" About fucking time! "And that's the match!"

"Fuck." I click out the mag and leave the round in the chamber. With a slash, Sun clicks out and reverts back to her sheathed-sword form. Rose makes to stand, and does a split, kicking Xiao Long's foot out and the pair of them bitch about the cold. I stomp the ice, breaking it so the little pussies can stop their game of slip and slide.

"Rose. Bring my mag will you?" Red labours to her feet. I look up at the screen, finding I'm still at ninety-two percent. Not bad, but if they work out those kinks and use actual strategies, I won't get them as easily.

If this were a real fight, and lives were on the line…would they have been as careless? Would they have hesitated in the beginning, giving me the time I needed? Doubtful.

"Here." Rose holds out my mag, frowning and tearful.

"Do you need me to explain why you lost?" I ask, taking what's mine and stuffing it into my hip pouch.

"No." I nod.

"Good. Fix the mistakes. And if I ever beat you like that again, I'm calling Branwen and Xiao Long to knock sense into you." I hold out my fist. "Deal?"

Rose smiles and nods. We bump fists, and all is forgiven.

"And if you ever let your," I glare at Belladonna, but she looks like this is all her fault. Like a kicked puppy look ramped up to infinity. Groan. Fucking empathy. It's hard to insult someone when they already look downtrodden. "A bitch can't even keep her shoes clean in this fucking academy." I storm off, crunching the icicles underfoot as I go.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Wait. So you've fought actual huntsmen?" Rose asks. I glare at Wenge, warning him to keep his fucking trap shut. He sips his tea, pretending he can do no wrong. That he's even drinking tea in the locker room shows he's full of shit.

"Did I say I fought huntsmen?" I ask. Fight a bitch, make a friend. The fuck is wrong with people? "I said I've faced rookie teams before. They all make the same rookie mistakes. Given I know Xiao Long well enough, given I know the Schnees' glyph semblance well enough, and given Rose has two years less training that the rest of you. It isn't hard to figure out a strategy to keep you off your game. Now fuck off. I've got—"

"But did you fight huntsmen?" Rose presses on. "And your sword is so cool! Does it change into a sniper rifle? What calibre do you—"

"I will shoot you. In the face. While you sleep."

"Same ol' Ivory," Xiao Long says, chuckling to herself even as she rolls her eyes and pulls Rose's cape to keep her well away from me and my fucking weapons. Fucking cockroaches.

I phase Sun and Moon through my locker door and finger them onto the little hooks. With my bit handled I turn and—

"So, Ive."

"Don't you fucking dare."

Wenge chuckles as he dials in his code, stuffs his baseball bat into his locker, and says over his shoulder, "You won the bet. When does Ember wanna hook up?" Shit. Uh, do I tell him her name's Sage? She didn't exactly strike me as the 'tell your friends, it's okay' type.

Sigh. If I didn't want to spend more time with Sage, I swear I'd leave all these clingy fuck-heads where they stand. "Tomorrow night?"

"I'm in!" Tiff practically jumps around with excitement. Doesn't she have to find a date? Or is she just happy to have a night out? Whatever.

"Clara's up for it," Neon announces, hammering away at his scroll. Is Clara her name? Didn't know that. "She's already checking the lineup. Should have some interesting choices in soon."

Wait. Clara's not a colour. Practically everyone since the Great War was named after a colour. Hmm. He'd best be on his guard. There are all kinds of scum out there.

Speaking of. What the hell do I know about…? Hmm.

**_8-8_**

* * *

After signing in, I input the desired data. Area: Vale. Name: Delftenaar, Sage.

The social media site gets a dozen hits, nothing major. Not all too unexpected for a Faunus that tells everyone a false name. Most hits are of other Delftenaars all the same. Boys, the lot of them. Only one woman, and she's in her late forties—could be her mom, or an aunt?

I click on her page, and a wolf-type Faunus's picture loads. Scrolling through the page, I find pretty much what you'd expect of a middle-aged mom. There're a bunch of pictures. Mostly of the same boys from the search. Some recipes and more pictures of meals being served; home cooked of course, and nothing too fancy.

The 'family' tab shows every single other Delftenaar in the list registered as her son. They seem to be the only 'Delftenaar' family in Vale, at least according to the site. The 'friends' tab shows the expected—dozens upon dozens of Faunus in the area. Including Mrs Bruin. Interesting.

I take out my scroll and dial Mrs Bruin.

_"Ivy, baby. I'm so glad you called. How are you?"_

"Hey, Mrs Bee. Wenge and I are alright, you?" I navigate back to my homepage and click the news reports. I type in Sage's full name and Vale. It comes up empty—good, not anyone famous, and no Delftenaar comes up either.

_"I'm so glad to hear that. Just washing up. Mr Bruin's already complaining about the news. That…uh, what's her face. The silver-haired one from the station? Well, anyway. The hussy's gone and gotten all the information backwards. Nothing new there."_ I chuckle, quite enjoying how nothing has changed.

"I'll try to act surprised when Tawny tells me all about it." I go back to my homepage again and click for the police reports. Every Faunus I know has a rap sheet. Mostly 'disturbing the peace' and other trumped up bullshit like that. So, I'm not in the least surprised to see her name show up, along with most of her brothers and even her mother—no father…strange. And they display age, so there's no chance any five year old had babies. None. "So, listen. There's this girl I'm scoping out. Need some intel, and I know you know them."

_"Damn it."_ A breathy sigh. Mrs Bruin no doubt hopes I can't hear that part_. "That's good to hear, sweetie. But are you sure you don't want to give Wenge a chance? I mean, you two are simply inseparable."_ Incest is still incest.

"I'm not into guys, he's not into girls. We both know we'd have been married by now otherwise." I click on Sage's name and the list pops up. DUI, times a dozen—curiously no blood alcohol tests linked, so that's bullshit. Stealing times a dozen, charges dropped due to insufficient evidence. Attempted murder, charges dropped due to insufficient evidence. Fraud, charges dropped due to insufficient evidence.

Heh. Reads like Wenge's, if far milder. Shit. That means she hasn't been to the protests. Even my rap sheet is more intense than this shit, and that's just for being there.

"So anyway. Name's Delftenaar."

_"Defteneer? Defteneer. Oh, that's Ebony and her cubs. Bright woman, that Ebony. A bit on the strange side if you ask me. Tends to keep to herself mostly. I talk to her sometimes at the supermarket. Always pregnant, but I've never heard her even speak of her husband. Or if she's even married."_ Ah, prostitute. Alright, I can deal with that. _"Bit of a night owl, which isn't too strange for a wolf here in Vale. But…no, that's mostly none of my business."_

I click back and check for Delftenaar, Ebony. Unsurprisingly, she's been arrested a few dozen times. And is currently incarcerated for prostitution. Sentence started last month, but this isn't her first stretch by far. Interesting. So that's why Sage dresses that way—she could be supporting her siblings.

_"I haven't seen her around, though. Not for a few months. Strange. I haven't seen Ashley either. That's not like them. Anyhoo, it's Flint you need to watch out for. Eldest son. Earlier twenties, I think. He got in with…the wrong crowd, and he just sucked the whole family down."_

Hmm. I check the elder siblings' rap sheets. Ashley's currently on the watch list—suspected White Fang member, and has some serious shit to her name. I really need to thank Tiff for teaching me how to do this; it's useful.

"I'll bet."

_"Tell me it's not Ashley. Please, not that one. My heart can't take my baby girl out there with that riffraff."_

_"What's this about Ashley?"_ Mr Bruin chimes in. _"I'd better not hear my daughter is tangled up with that trash."_

"No, it's not." And if figures Mr Bruin long-since accepted Wenge and I will never work. We're just not made that way.

_"Sage, then,"_ Mrs Bruin says. _"Thank the gods."_ I check the list, there are no other women registered—or at least no feminine-sounding names on the list. _"The quiet one of the bunch. Moved out about five years ago, if memory serves. Couldn't cope with how things were. She can't have had it easy, though."_

I click the eldest brother's name. Another White Fang member, lieutenant and recruiter, in fact. Outstanding warrants in Vale and Atlas. Pictures of robberies, videos of murders committed. An all-round bad egg.

_"Give me that."_ Mr Bruin, no doubt, takes the phone. _"Ivory. You listen to me. If you are in any way interested in this Ashley, I will disown you before thi—"_

"Hey, Mr Bruin. No. Not her. Yes, I know to bring her by so you and the Mrs can approve before declaring this is in any way serious. And no, I will not make her life more difficult if I can help it."

_"Hmm."_ I can almost see him nodding sagely. The clink of a bottles hints he opened the fridge. _"Good. And be sure Wenge hears that same warning. Boy can't be bothered to pick up a phone and call his mother from time to time. Disgraceful."_

"Don't be like that. He texts her every day. I know it's not the same, but still."

_"Back in my day, cubs came by every day to see their mother. And they didn't just up and leave at thirteen, neither. And not only did he leave, but he went and took you with him. I tell you, he should have listened and become a doctor. Boy's got the talent for it. Brains, too."_

"I'll be sure to talk to him again, Mr Bruin. I promise. Can I have the Mrs back? Need to gush about something."

_"Gush? If this is about my boy finally getting himself a boyfriend, I need to hear it, too."_

"It's not official. So you don't care yet."

_"Ah."_ A bottle cap pops. It's news hour. _"You see, this is why the wife done pestering you about marrying him. Damn if you ain't already part of the family. So when you coming by? It's boring knocking back a cold one without you bickering at the table."_

"Sunday's only a few days away."

_"That's when you're coming to eat. When're you coming by?"_

I smile and shake my head. "I'll talk to the team. See when works for everyone. I'll text the Mrs to let you guys know?"

**_8-8_**

**End Chapter Five**

**8-8**

* * *

**_A/N: Just one more chapter of this volume. It just isn't meant to be too action-packed, for reasons. You'll see in Volume 2.  
_**


	6. V1:C6—Bullheaded

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume One, Chapter Six—Bullheaded**_

_**8-8**_

* * *

The promenade is, per the norm, all lit up. Being a Tuesday night, it isn't as busy as it otherwise might be, but I'm unsure if that's a good thing or not. Sage stands under the streetlight ahead, in the same hoodie and baggy pants as ever. Her tail is once again tucked between her legs.

She smells me, no doubt in my mind, but she doesn't glance my way.

I motion for my team to give me a second, and step out of our group. My boots clap against the pavement, purposely kept audible even for me, to ensure she knows I'm coming. She might or might not have my hang-ups, but she deserves the respect I'd demand in the same situation.

"So you know," Sage says, still not looking at me. Her eyes hollow, distant. Her arms snake around her middle, as if trying to brace for impact. It's strange. I've done this with every potential love interest for as long as I can remember, but it never seems to get any easier.

"Yeah," I say, stopping just outside her personal space and stuff my hands into my hoodie's pockets. "I know. And I'm still interested."

Her nose snaps towards me, her eyes wide.

"Did you know about me before…?" I ask, hands balled but hopefully hidden.

"You were…" Sage can't seem to find the right words, but I can't bring myself to look at her just now. "I didn't."

Her hand reaches out, as if wanting to touch me, to comfort me, but she pulls back, unsure and more than a little afraid. Our eyes meet, hers just as teary as my own.

"I'm sorry." She flies at me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders and holding me tight. "I'm so sorry. When I read what they…and you're still…" My hands pull out of my pockets and slither around her waist, wrapped around her and my fingers clutching her sides.

Gods, I don't think I can take this risk; I know I shouldn't. So why do I hope this'll be different?

Fucking empathy. Fucking desire to be wanted.

I phase out of her embrace, and walk away.

"Ive." I pause. Sage's voice. The tears all too obvious in her tone. I'm sorry. "Please don't…"

Into the encroaching darkness, I walk. Alone.

"Ivory!" I'm sorry, Sage. This is for the best.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Good morning, class," Professor Peach says, pacing. We're lined up, all six of us, side by side. Today's supposed to be an important day. Or so our syllabus claims. "Today you start combat flight training. That means you'll start with the Bullhead. This requires two-on-two—pilot and co-pilot. There will be no easy mode." There was an easy mode?

Instead of the individual cockpits we had before with their veneer of privacy, a la paper thin aluminium walls, there are eight dual cockpits with their open backs facing the central computer where the screens clearly show the Atlas M-Fifty-Two Bullhead.

"I will be recording your performance," Peach continues, "along with your comms chatter. These recordings will count towards your piloting exams. So it is in your best interest to be professional at all times from the moment you enter my class. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say. Peach freezes in place. Neon's eyes are on me; the other fuckwits aren't shy about stealing a glance, either. Sigh. Whatever.

I walk right over to one of the cockpits and take the pilot's seat and strap myself in, in no mood for the knowing looks. I grab my headset off the stick and gear up. Program loads, screen displays the usual, _Pilot ID._

"DeWitt, Ivory. Trainee number Juliet Tango Niner Four Two Six." The screen blinks monochrome green and my picture loads along with the text, _DeWitt, I_. "Load mission briefing list."

_Error! Confirm co-pilot._

"Neon, Eminence. Trainee number Juliet Tango Nine Four Three One." Neon's picture flashes on screen, before exploding into a laundry list of mission briefings we can take. The man himself straps himself in, his headset already on and his ears clapped down. "Pick your poison, Ive."

Operation Crescent Lake, Operation Lukewarm, Operation Vytal…well, we are hosting the Vytal Festival.

"Load Mission Briefing codename Operation Vytal," I say, grabbing my steering and checking the resistance, to compare it to the old one. There are more buttons and switches and clicks and lights. Everything seems different.

The dossier opens giving us some historic long-talk about how this was the decisive battle in X war Y years ago, with Z diplomatic terms on a fuckton of bullshit no one ever has the patience to read. Boiled to basics, there are assholes on the other side, and the assholes on my side want them dead. Expect grimm presence, expect heavy resistance. Solo mission—expect no back up, shoot anything that moves.

"Close Mission Briefing. Load Mission." The screen loads into a hangar—an old-looking one. Two fly-boys push the hangar doors open. The Bullhead doesn't have wheels, so they expect me to fucking fly this shit out of here.

Brilliant. Fucked before we even begin.

**"Northern Storm,"** Peach's voice comes over the comms, **"you are go for lift-off."**

I check the two throttles I have available. Hmm. Totally different. Always totally fucking different. Fine.

Click up engine primers—three of them? Engines rev up. I slide the right throttle ten percent forward. The screen leans down, showing we're about to keel over. I throttle back, seeing the screen rocking up and down, and slide the left one ten percent forward. We hover up, steady but slow. I slide the right one ten percent forward and we glide dead ahead.

The cockpit's head clips the ceiling, so I slide the hover engine down to five percent. We drag our feet, so I up it to seven. Still dragging our feet. Hmm. I up it to ten and drop it to seven, and we hover the fuck out.

The world loads. We're in Argus, northern Anima. We need to make it to Vytal, in northern Vale. Fucking A. That's a four hour flight at best. And something tells me we'll be facing grimm all the way there.

The screen flashes blood red.

_WARNING! Fear and anxiety are above nominal levels! Calm yourself immediately!_

Ah yeah. Because a message like that will calm people down for sure. "Neon?"

"It's not me. And this is a solo mission. My guess is the operator is fucking with us again."

Sigh. Figures. Peach thinks I learn best by being fucked over, so now she's actively going to fuck us over every step of the way. "Figure out those gun controls," I say, turning out to sea and sliding the forward throttle up to fifty percent, so Argus won't get caught in the fray. "Grimm'll be on us in less than five."

The land fades into the distance below us, leaving only open sea ahead. Now let's see. We need to make it to Vytal, that means following the coast of Anima—

A Gatling gun fires off dozens of rounds into the ocean, in under a second. "Figured out the gun." No shit. "Looks like we have just over nine-kay rounds." Nine thousand? With that rate of fire? We'll be out before we even get there.

"See if you can switch to three round bursts or sniper," I say. There's nothing coming up about grimm. At all. So I know this will go sideways in a heartbeat.

"Will it matter if I can?" I'm not listening to a pity parade, Neon. Fuck off and get to it. "I'm the worst sniper."

"You learn or we die here." I ease back the throttle and bring us into a hover.

"Switch positions," he says. "You're the better sniper."

"It's called growth," I intone, glaring to warn Neon I'm not in the mood for his bullshit. "Look it up."

"In Mistral, we pronounce it survival." I kick his ankle. "Hey!"

Think. We're out to sea. Sea feilongs. Leviathans. Those flying fish types, and the freaky bees. The deeper the ocean, the bigger the whale that can hide in it. Hmm. We don't have the firepower to handle the big fish. But our main objective is to make it to Vytal and handle shit there.

"Neon. Plot us a course to Vytal and track out current location." That leaves me with a fuckton of shit to figure out, including the gods-damned steering.

Let's see. Three buttons on the steering the airbus didn't have. I press the highest. Two little arrows spin round in my screen. Ha, the Gatling is spinning. Holding that down I press the second. Shots fire. Hmm.

Holding the first, I press the third. A single shot. My gaze snaps to movement in my vision. Nevermore inbound, solo. Crosshairs centre on his wing. Interesting.

I shift my focus over to one side. The crosshairs moves with it. It's not properly calibrated, seeing as my vision is slightly to the right of it.

Hmm. It's tracking only a single eye? I close my left eye and look at my target. The crosshairs centre on the fucker's face. Hold in the top button with my thumb, give it a second, and tap the third with my middle finger. The nevermore's head explodes and it drops.

Fucking A.

"And the reason you need a co-pilot is…?" Neon sounds amused, for some fucking reason.

I slide the forward throttle up to half. Hmm. There are three more buttons on the left handle. I press the top, finding the same rotation symbol. Alright, bitches. Game on.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"You're heartless. You know that, don't you." I ignore Tiff, again. There's little point in getting entangled in a bullshit debate. "She was in tears. Tears. As in crying. Because of you." All the more reason to end it now.

I walk up the stairs to our usual desk and plop down beside Wenge. Dr Oobleck is, no doubt, going to be as obnoxiously hyper this time as every other. So best to save my patience for that.

"Drop it, Tulip," Wenge says. His meaty hand pats my shoulder, no doubt already having noticed my tension. Ignoring them best I can, I fish out a notebook and mechanical pencil, readying myself for the note-taking marathon no doubt in my future. "Tawny's birthday's coming up."

Shit. Completely slipped my mind. "She mentioned what she wants?" I ask.

"Yeah. A proper tea party." I roll my eyes. Of course. The one thing that takes more time than money, the one thing she knows only I can properly observe. That means they already have a plan. Fuck. "Your own fault for spoiling her." No, it's my fault for explaining you people much of anything about my past.

The die is cast. No way left but forward.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The desk is littered with parts. Springs, sliders, extended magazines, gas canisters, frames with gas chambers already installed, a box with ten-mil rounds. The works. My handheld sander smoothes and buffs all the pieces to perfection, one by one, while Beacon's three-D printer cools; poor thing had to work overtime.

Cost an arm and a leg, no doubt; three-D printers that molecularly recompose metal scraps aren't cheap by any means. It wasn't my limb, so not my problem. Still, getting Goodwitch to acquiesce to my using it is what's annoying—especially since she was almost too happy to say yes; it's the price tags you can't see you should worry most about.

Whatever.

Once finally satisfied every piece is smooth as can be, I oil my little cloth and rub a thin coat onto each piece. Then comes assembly, and making sure they all fit into place seamlessly. That's fucking annoying, but a necessary evil. Like talking to people—bothersome even in the best of times, but it's just the price of admission.

In short order, two pistols identical to Moon sit before me, including the gas chamber. But it's the learner's pistol that's really going to turn heads—Tawny's turning six, good a time as any to learn how to stay alive in this fucked up urban wasteland. I grab one of the dozen extended mags, and click in cartridge after cartridge of reg-rounds.

Need leg holsters. Need pistol care kits. Need hip pouches. Need a box with extra rounds. And I need a fucking drink. Beer ain't gonna cut it this time.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Step. Step-step. Step. Careful. Pace yourself. Tawny don't need to know.

I leer at the doorknob. It looks about right. So I grab and twist. Locked. Fuck, and I ain't got no keys. The fuck is Wengey-poo doin' that I gotta do everything.

My finger stabs the ding-donger. Once. Twice. Fuck it, no reaction, so I just hold it in until something happens. Baby bear's doubled over behind me, laughing. He probably told his parents to fuck with my head. Again. Asshole.

Door swings open. Some irate-looking cocksucker glares at me.

"Oy. The fuck you do-win in the Bru-wins?" I ask, stabbing the little shit with my finger. Heh. That rhymes. The fuck you doing in the Bruins, the fuck you doing in the Bruins. I would so rock the house. Karaoke night!

"Ivory," little-shit intones, sounding annoyed. "You drunk again?"

"Shh!" I motion for them to chill the fuck out. "Tawny ain't s'posed to know. It's her bird-day."

"Look." What's with the attitude? You're the one in the wrong house, you little shit! "I get it. You've seen some things. But ringing on the wrong apartment is only cute the first dozen times." Little-shit points. Over my shoulder. I lean backwards, finding papa bear leaning in the doorway behind me. How the fuck is he standing there upside-down? He isn't even hanging onto anything, and his arms are crossed over his chest. And he looks amused.

"'Eyyyyyyyy! Mizzer Bee." I beam, happy to see him happy. "Jus' hammin' nout?"

"It's called therapy, Bruin. She needs more of that, and less of this." The door slams. Crabby li'l shit. "And she was doing so much better."

**_8-8_**

* * *

I slowly, carefully, ease into my usual chair at the dining table, being super extra careful it doesn't make any noise. No scraping against the linoleum, no whingeing under my weight. Nothing.

A cupboard slams shut, louder than a shotgun blast.

"Oy."

"No complaining!" Mrs Bruin's voice rings louder still. All I can do is grab my throbbing head and pray the end comes swiftly. "I can't believe you let her get this drunk!"

"Technically," Wenge drags his chair, scraping the four legs on the floor like nails on chalkboard, "she's hung-over."

"I hate you all," I complain, trying to massage my temple and plug my ears with my fingers at the same time.

A glass of water and some painkillers are set in front of me. I look up, finding Sage, of all fucking people, offering me an understanding smile.

Sigh. Not only hung-over, but immediately faced with the exact fucking reason I got drunk in the first place. Brilliance.

I mutter my thanks and down the aspirins, drowning the little shits with the remaining water best I can.

"So, Ive." I clink the now empty glass on the table as quietly as I can. Mrs Bruin jerks open the fridge door, clattering whatever she went in there for onto the counter as loudly as she can. She even turns on the fucking tv and turns it up. "Ma, I need to talk to her."

"And she needs to unlearn this!" Mrs Bruin _says_, louder than she otherwise would need to. You know. Blaring tv and all that.

Tears well up in my eyes, the searing pain swimming in my skull so much I might just pass the fuck out.

The room goes silent. Hoping against hope, I crack an eye open, finding Mr Bruin carefully setting the remote onto the dining table. He slowly, quietly pulls up a chair and sits down. Tawny, of course, crawls into his lap, peering over at me from her perch.

Fuck. Can we go back to auditory torture? Please?

"Ivory," Mr Bruin says, keeping his voice down. "We're going to talk about this. Here and now."

"Look," I say as quietly as I can without risking going unheard. Elbows prop up onto the square table, my face buried in my palms and fingers barely not digging into my scalp. Mrs Bruin is at least still clattering everything she touches—there's hope. "Sage. I'm a mess. You're too good for me. I'm sorry I made you think otherwise."

The sounds from the kitchenette still. Peeking through my fingers, Mrs Bruin's wide-eyed stare pierces right through me. Gods damn it.

Sigh.

"Ivory?" Sage's voice trembles from the tears .Tears I put there. Sigh. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

I'm not going there. At all. Never again. "You've had a rough life," I say, hoping to steer this supposed intervention somewhere other than my past. "I can empathise. So, just take the stupid pistols and let's agree I'll only make you miserable."

I stand, my blood curdling at the sound of my chair scraping the flooring—no matter how muted. I phase through the bedroom door, grab Sun and Moon, and leave my backpack with the two…fuck. I didn't give Tawny her present. Sigh.

Grabbing the fucking wrapped boxes, I phase right back through the door and over to the dining table. I give Tawny the box decorated with birthday cakes and the card with her name drawn on in proper calligraphy. Sage gets the mint green box without a card.

Yellow eyes, teary and hurting and yet so open and trusting. A little smile takes over her every feature, steals the very air from my lungs—and shivs me in the gut while she's at it.

I tear my gaze from her, from the way she hugs the present to her chest.

What else is there to say, after all. I want her, she wants me. That's a fucking disaster waiting to happen. It would have been so much easier if we'd have just fucked and left it at that, but no, she instead had to seep past my every…

I phase right through the front door, arms wrapping around my middle.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Click up the engine primers as the windshield armour slides back. My seat shivers as the engines come to life. The same old Beacon hangar loads in that same old bullshit lego style. Vertical thrust slides forward to ten percent and drops back to seven to hover in place; forward thrust slides to ten percent and holds as I guide the Bullhead out of the hangar.

Out in the open air, I slide the vertical thrust slowly up to twenty percent. The G-force monitor shows I'm subjected to no more than one-point-three Gs, gentle enough for even civilians. I click forward the little throttle hidden under the forward thrust, letting the right engine purr harder than the left, giving me an easy curve, just like the flight plan said I would, easing the lower throttle back to synchronise once at the end of my turn.

It's almost strange how easy it is, now that Winchester isn't fucking with my every system.

Finally above the clouds, I ease the vertical throttle to seven percent, and slide the forward throttle slowly, oh so gently, up until we're at sixty percent.

Negative emotion readings are nominal, all systems functional. Fuck, at this rate I might just have a textbook flight. Won't that be something.

Screen flashes red. Grimm inbound from my six. Ah, I was getting worried. I slide the forward thrust back to zero, spin my wheel, slide the forward thrust into reverse sixty percent, and ease the wheel back once I've made a good one-eighty. Six nevermores. That's it? Fuck, these people need to think about hiring Winchester, this would be his sneak fucking preview while he loads the real trouble.

Left eye closes, top button squeezes. One after the other, I aim and squeeze the single round, blasting the assholes. When the last of them dusts, I release the top button and spin us back around, sliding the throttle back to sixty percent forward.

A scratching sound from beside me. Not sure what Peach is doing, but I'm positive I don't fucking care. I just need to get through this basic ass assessment. Not sure why in the flying fuck Ozpin and Goodwitch need to be breathing down my gods-damned neck for so basic a fucking thing. But whatever.

The grimm warning doesn't ease. Below me, then. I reach up and tilt up the wings at the same time as I push forward my wheel to dip the nose. A leviathan's ginormous head loads in my screen. I don't have the firepower to deal with that, and it doesn't appear interested in Vale. So fuck him.

Nose pulls up and wings tilt down, I slide the forward thrust up to eighty percent and leave the asshole in the dust. When the red stops flashing, at long last, I ease back to sixty percent forward.

Systems are all operational, time-speed still at 1:1. Is Winchester just not here? Was he asked to leave? The fuck is going on?

More scratching beside me. Slurping from behind—so Ozpin didn't pass out, that's something.

No heel-tapping, no disparaging comments. I've got nothing to go on, and with no 'mystery malfunctions' I don't even have something to distract me.

"Something you want to tell me, professor?" I don't care which of the three the boot fits, there's some serious tom-fuckery going on here. Still no system malfunctions. Still no time-fuckery. Still no unexplained spikes in the negative emotions. No sudden explosions. No dust-fuel being jettisoned for undisclosed reasons. And frankly, that grimm encounter felt chanced—like it was just background noise. Some serious bullshit is going on here.

Nothing is said. Just the same scratching sound, the same slurping of coffee. Nothing changes. Triangulation puts me in Atlas airspace. I call in my approach to Atlas Academy, and get Neon to confirm shit, again. This is…not normal.

Okay. So there must be some major battle unfolding under the cloud cover. I ease down, finding negligible air traffic, just like Neon said. Neon, again, confirms my flight plan, and I ease into the Atlas Academy hangar and kill the engines.

I look over at Peach, finding her playing tic-tac-toe on a blank sheet of paper. Nope. Don't wanna know. "Are we done here?" I ask, already unbuckling my seatbelt. "Load mission debrief, save to pilot folder. Unload simulation. Eject pilot." In quick succession, the screen jumps about, ending on the 'select pilot profile' loading page.

I've had quite enough bullshit for one lifetime, thank you.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I collapse onto my bed, exhausted from training and exams and…sigh, everything.

My first semester comes to a close. Has it already been ten weeks? Whatever.

Turn onto my side, but the bland wall and closed closet door does little to ease the disquiet within.

Back onto my back, the ceiling doesn't improve things much. Sigh. Maybe turn on the news? I'll just tune it out, of course, but it could help.

I fish out my scroll, press it open.

There's a little exclamation mark by messages. Probably Mrs Bruin cursing me out for walking out the way I did. Or worse, Mr Bruin.

Sigh.

I click on it.

Tears well up.

**1 new message from Sage**

Turn onto my tummy, I lay my scroll on my pillow and load the message.

_Sade: "Ivory. I'm so pissed with you I can barely see straight…"_

Sigh. I close my scroll, unwilling to read further—it's not like I can see anything through the tears. The shooting gallery should still be open.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Of course. "Please. Have a seat," Ozpin says, motioning with his usual mug to the empty chair. Only this time, we aren't alone. Goodwitch I expected. So what's the deal with Peach?

I take my seat, crossing my legs at the knees and sandwiching my hands between my thighs to keep them warm. "Are we going to have an actual conversation this time, or are you in riddle mode?" I ask.

"I want to congratulate you," Ozpin says. His lips curl up into a warm smile, but his eyes are still too busy dissecting me to show emotion. "On passing your piloting exams. With flying colours, if you don't mind the expression." He motions to his desk, no doubt meaning for me to place my scroll to update my information.

"What do you want," I ask, meeting his once again amused gaze, "Professor Ozpin?"

"For your scroll's data to be updated to match your current reality as licenced pilot," he claims.

"That's what we're doing here." I take out my scroll and clap it onto his desk. My information loads, the hologram showing a picture of me from before I cut my hair. Long icy white tresses carefully brushed back into a tight bun with chopsticks stabbed into it to hold it in place. My eyes smile, my lips curled up. Pissing off the photographer who told me not to smile was entertaining. "Now what do you want?"

A new line is entered. Pilot, licenced. M-Fifty-Two Bullhead and P-Forty-Six Airbus load as registered aircraft I'm permitted to fly.

Not a word is said as my data is synched with Vale's air traffic control database. I scoop up my scroll and stuff it right back into my pocket.

"How old is that photo of you?" Ozpin asks.

"What. Do. You. Want. Professor?" Obviously I need to annunciate clearly. Nothing else seems to register with this one.

"Team White," Goodwitch speaks up before Ozpin lands himself in hot water again, "will be taking their first paid mission in two weeks. You'll be coming with me. I have need of a licenced pilot and capable fighters."

"Pay?" I ask, my tone flat, but my glare sharp.

"Four-thousand Lien just for the pilot," Goodwitch says, her gaze never wavering from me. I nod. That means grimm-fest, and she needs a team that can handle. "It's in grimm infested territory, after all."

"When's the test flight?" I ask, not looking to her. It's Ozpin that concerns me just now. He's got some serious bullshit up his sleeve, and I want no part of that.

"Next weekend," Goodwitch says, again not giving Ozpin the chance to piss me off more. "Team White will accompany me on a simple patrol outside the kingdom. Pay depends on the state of the Bullhead on return." I nod and stand, walking off without another word.

"Ms DeWitt." Of course Ozpin needs more. I pause, but don't look back. "Is there…something you want to ask?"

"I have asked," I intone. I knew his ass wasn't paying attention. Shit, with all that caffeine in his system, you'd think he'd be awake enough to notice. "You refuse to engage, so what good is repetition?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

The red lights are all on. Bodies on display on display like a meat market. Men rub their abs and flex their muscles, hanging from poles, walking around in thong to serve drinks. The gogo beat is as migraine inducing as it always was. This is why I avoid Twinkles during special events—bachelorette party my ass, the bride is trying to fuck a few dozen cocks before her I-dos.

Sage is behind the bar, her yellow eyes transfixed on me. I nod to Azul, he nods back, and I make my way up the stairs, to the VIP section.

Jacques Schnee beckons to me, his white moustache covering his mouth, but his bright blue eyes smile all the same. White hair slicked back, but with just enough 'poof'. White tailored suit lending him an air of sophistication I'm not sure I ever really experienced, and the red handkerchief in his left breast pocket—even without confirmation, I would bet every Lien to my name it's silk. The VIP lounge is crawling with his bodyguards, but doesn't draw the eye nearly as much as the buffet on display before him. Fucking hell, he could feed a Mantle neighbourhood with those calories.

But more than that. The screaming and yelling and general ruckus of all those horny women downstairs, it'll make it impossible to hear these asses approaching me. And of course, I'm asked to sit with my back to them. I can't use my seals without pulling my hoodie up.

"Thank you for coming, my dear," Schnee says as I take a seat opposite him. His tone is as pleasant this time as every other time we've spoken. Somehow it only grates on me more with time. "I'm sure you're a busy girl, so I'll get right to it. Have you considered my offer?"

"I have." I subtly activate my aura, fully expecting this to get out of hand. I gaze into his light blue eyes without a shred of fear. "And I'll tell you the same I told them. My lineage dies with me."

"Come now, Ms DeWitt." He smiles, his eyes warm. "You can't really mean that. After all, I would happily offer you the life you never had. Servants tending to your every need. The finest cuisine at every meal. You'll never have to work again. Who doesn't want that?"

"Atlas. Is not. Getting the DeWitt name back." I stand, aura still very much focused. "My lineage dies with me. Is that simple enough for you, Schnee?"

"It's not your name, my dear." His words are calm, even. No tension at all in him. He's nothing like the other Atlesian men I've known, and yet he continually rubs me the wrong way. Something I can't put my finger on. "What I want is a suitable wife for my son."

"That's nice," I intone. "The red light district is three kilometres north from here. Listen out for this kind of music, you can't—"

A hand lands on my shoulder and phases right through me. My knee rams behind the offender, knocking him down to my height. My hand phases through his neck and wraps around his spine, holding him in place.

"**No one**. Touches. Me," I sneer. Every drop of blood in my veins cries of for retribution. The urge to rip his fucking head off is almost overwhelming. My eyes narrow on Schnee, murder plainly written in my gaze. "We're done here." I don't break anything. I don't ram the piece of shit's face in the table.

I just phase my hand out of the boulder of a man and walk off, leaving the mounting scent of urine behind. Big bad bodyguard—pisses himself when faced with a real threat.

**_8-8_**

* * *

My hands tremble. Rage and confusion besiege me as the scene plays out in my mind.

He did nothing. Nothing. No sign. No twinge. Did the bodyguard act out of turn? Was I perceived as a threat? Was he just trying to comfort me? Did I overreact? Am I the bad guy here? What the do I make of any of that?

I curl up into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest.

Why did I go there alone? Why did I go at all? Nothing good ever comes from those meetings. They're all the same. They don't know me, don't want me. They just want the DeWitt name. They want the blood I inherited. The status that comes from an 'old world' title.

"Hey," Wenge says, keeping his voice calm and soothing. Bedsprings groan; he no doubt just sat down. "Brought you some."

He holds out an empty plastic cup, a half empty forty ounce nestled between his feet. Neon and Tulip are probably down in the mess hall, or just refuse to get tangled up in this.

"Sage called," Wenge continues. "Told me you swung by. That you had a meeting with some rich type with white hair. She thought it might be your old man, from the similarities."

Is that what it was? Did he remind me of that man?

"Said you were on a rampage when you left." I'm not in a chatty mood, Wenge. "I take it that was another Atlesian."

"Mm." I nod.

"You wanna walk me through it?" Ah yes, because I'm obviously itching to chat your ears off. "See what you're missing?"

He holds the cup by the rim. I reach out and grab it's base, careful to not touch him just now. His eyes narrow, but he says nothing as he releases it. He leans over and pours my cup full, the plastic cooling against my palm.

Cup gently lands beside me, my finger tracing the rim as I go over the meeting again. Hoping to make sense of it.

"I." My voice sounds scratchy, laden with my inner turmoil. I shake my head, chasing the memory of a sudden hand on my shoulder. "Schnee."

"What, again? How many times have you told him no?" he asks, exasperated. I snort, fully agreeing with him. "But you never reacted this strongly. What happened?"

"The bodyguard. He. He grabbed…no, not a grab. His hand. It was just suddenly on my shoulder and I…"

Cup upends, spilling its chilled piss down my throat one gulp at a time. Fuck. It tasted bad chilled, lukewarm it really does taste like…

I shiver with disgust, but I reach out, asking for a refill.

"Ive." Wenge refills. "You know I'd never hurt you. Right?"

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Six_**

**_8-8_**

**_End Volume One_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Alright. I think I got the more glaring mistakes out. Lemme know what you guys think. _**


	7. V2:C1—Dance with me?

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Two, Chapter One—Dance with me?**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

The mess hall is…ugh. Full of people, again. I mean, it sort of makes sense. They have to eat. But why do they always feel like they should be close to me? And why is Valkyrie throwing food to Xiao Long? Well, blondie's giving the thumbs-up, so she isn't unhappy with it.

Sigh.

"So what's the plan, team leader?" Neon asks, idly playing with his food. We actually have a day off, and he's already bored. Seriously?

"Dunno." Wenge sounds every bit as bored. That's not good.

Rose slams a book on the Team RWBY's table and starts talking about 'doing something awesome and fun'. And Valkyrie's still tossing little things to Xiao Long.

Tiffany hiccups, already pouring herself another cupful of beer. And Neon nudges her for some, too. Ah fuck. All the ingredients are there—Wenge's boredom, Neon and Tiff getting drunk, and food already being thrown playfully.

I'm so not fighting in a fucking skirt.

Schnee shoots to her feet, just in time for something to hit her square in the face. I look to Neon and Tiff, but they're busy toasting to an interesting day. Wenge snickers, his scroll pointing to Schnee—no doubt taking a picture; he didn't throw it—he hates getting caught red-handed, and recording is exactly the evidence he wouldn't want.

Huh. So how long will it take for our team to get dragged into this?

Then again. Why wait? "Hey, baby bear. You were bored, right?"

"Keep recording." Wenge hands me his scroll. He wasn't taking pictures? "FOOD FIGHT!"

Tiff perks right up, but Neon's not quite there yet.

Shit starts flying every which way. Dishes are tossed, plate and all. Arc somehow gets tossed against one of the windows. Valkyrie, of course, punts Xiao Long for picking on JNPR's leader—not sure why she uses a table to do it, though.

The other students look like they're gearing up to get involved. Until Valkyrie smacks one of the larger Faunus clear across the mess hall and into a running start for the door. That sends everyone for the hills—second-years, even fourth-years, everyone's bailing out.

Pussies. She's just a little girl. Wenge and Tiff look about ready to prove it. Wenge lobs a table right for the tiny terror, and Tiff pelts plates, Frisbee-style.

"Hey, Neon," I prod Mr Pink Hair, "they're having fun without you."

"They can handle it," Neon mumbles and sips without a care. "Besides. It's a sin to waste good beer." True.

Valkyrie lets loose the fakest of boastful chuckles, like a bad villain from a kid's show. "I'm queen of the castle! I'm queen of the castle!" We've now devolved into full-on theatrics. Wonderful.

"Justice will be swift! Justice will be painful!" Why is Rose crushing a carton of milk? "It will be delicious!"

Hmm, maybe they know I'm recording them? Well, no harm, no foul. Have at kiddies.

"Yeah!" Team RWBY announce as one, fists hoisted in the air, as if their declaration of war is delivered.

Somehow melons get into the mix, catapulted our way. I grab Neon's shoulder and phase us both through the onslaught.

Xiao Long rushes in a dead sprint, and fists two baked whole turkeys up the ass. Come on. At least lube the poor bastards. She starts punching the projectiles, and it rains melon guts all over our table. Or just over everything. She probably decides she's not making enough headway, so she chucks her turkeys at the enemy, getting Arc with both of them.

Fucking hell. How did he not dodge that? Nikos dodged them just fine.

Wenge grabs two of the melons mid-air and lobs them both at Rose. One catches her in the shin, the other right in the head—I zoom in, showing melon-zombie-Rose as she struggles back to her feet.

Belladonna and Nikos have a heated battle with…baguettes? Belladonna dual-wields, continually shifting places with her shadow and bombarding Nikos from her flank, but Nikos's single baguette clearly overpowers her, blocking every attack and lashing with a single strike. Frankly, I'm not sure how bread can withstand the onslaught—is it that old, or something? Bread's supposed to be chewable! Belladonna jumps back, and Nikos uses the opening to spear her with a baguette, flinging her back. And somehow more baguettes are thrown, getting Xiao Long as well?

Valkyrie gets her hands on a pole and skewers a melon, using it like a hammer.

Somehow, in the mix of all this, Schnee sprays ketchup and trips…uh…the quiet one up. Then there's a fucking swordfish. Why in the hell in Schnee fighting with a swordfish in hand?

"Oy!" Neon jumps to his feet, his cup somehow empty and liquid pouring down his uniform? "I was drinking that!"

Rose comes skating on a food tray, but Neon rushes her and knees her in the face so hard she slams into the wall. Wenge lobs Tiff at Nikos—I'm not sure I understand the logic here, but okay? Nikos flings her baguette like a spear, getting Tiff right in the face, sending her right back at Wenge.

"Nooooo!" What the hell is even going on? Why is Rose holding Schnee? And where did Xiao Long go? Sigh. This is why I like my hoodie and seals—fucking people just can't sit still during a fight.

Huh. There's a hole in the roof. And only one person's missing.

Nikos seems to have had enough of the fighting. She slaps the pool of soda around her, and levitates the lot of them up. Tiff lobs a ball of electricity right at her, a swath of cans explode, covering Nikos in sticky sweetness, but the rest of them, and all the cans from the dispensers, all fly down the shooting gallery—err, mess hall.

Wenge grabs Tiff and flings her ahead. Without the grounding, she charges up and arcs lightning at everything at once, forcing even more cans to explode. Wenge lobs Neon right after her—not sure why he isn't getting electrocuted, but he grabs our blonde like the princess she is, spins around and kicks a half dozen cans so hard they explode—only the hardened ex-liquid within hurls at Nikos and her team. Okay, clearly some kind of ice Semblance.

Neon lands, maiden in hand and still spinning. Just in time for Rose to go speed demon on all of them. She goes so fast, the wind she kicks up picks Wenge up and flings him along. Hell, the table I'm sitting to gets ripped up from the ground, along with pretty much everything else. I let it all phase right through me. All these dramatics—might make for a hell of an introductory film for new students. I call it: BEWARE, there be teammates in them there forests!

Neon grabs Wenge by the shin as he zips overhead and pulls baby bear down to the ground, where the wind shear should be more manageable. Neon's feet somehow stick to the floor enough to hold the three of them down, while essentially the rest of the room, including Team JNPR, aims for the far wall. Rose hits the wall first, leaving a ginormous dent, and legs it up and out of the way as JNPR slams into the target and gets lambasted with everything not nailed down.

I'm not sure what the fuck just happened. But if those fuckwits would put the same energy into team spars, things might finally get interesting around here.

Rose lands on her feet. The only one standing, or so she seems to think—given not one of my team is down for the count, nevermind me still not taking a hit. Tiff walks over with her hands glowing electric blue to the overconfident Rose and grabs her shoulders. The screaming sounds painful, but the lightshow…ooh. She looks roasted—and is smoking to boot.

The door slams open. Goodwitch storms in. With little more than a lash of her riding prong, tables fly back into place. Don't mind if I do; I phase right back into a seated position and cross my legs at the knees.

Wait. No drink?

"Children, please." She rights her glasses, her resting bitch face finally shining through. "Do not play with your food."

I click to end the recording and close Wenge's scroll. Just in time for Xiao Long to nosedive into one of the tables. Damn. Another second and I would've caught that.

"Oy. Ive!" Neon calls out, waving like an idiot. "A hand? 'M stuck!" Sigh. He must have some kind of icy-gluey Semblance—the asshole got stuck to the floor last time too. Fuck if I understand why.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The first day of the second trimester and all I see is the familiar Valean skyline puking up migraines from my past. Three Destroyer-class dicks in the distance, and a few dozen baby-dicks fluttering around them like fruit flies.

So the Atlesian military is here, in Vale. Fuck if I care, so long as those incessant pissants leave me the hell alone. Team WITE make our way into the main building, armed to the teeth. Funny thing about going to combat class—kinda hard to learn to fight when unarmed. Well. Technically.

"Yo." Some fancy blue-haired fuckwit leans against the hallway wall, just as I'm passing. He'd better be talking to Tiff.

I fish out my scroll and stroll right passed, loading my messages.

_Mrs Bruin: "Sage was just here. Sweet as I remember. She helped with lunch. Tawny likes her. Your father does, too."_ They've been talking about me again. Then again, when are Mr and Mrs Bruin not talking about Wenge and me? And since when is Mr Bee 'dad'? Sigh. She must figure if I won't be her daughter-in-law, she might as well adopt, or whatever.

_Sage: "I'm so—"_ Yeah, we're not doing this now.

_Mr Bruin: "its tata sayg was here shes nice are you gonna come over soon I miss you"_

"Yo." Oh look. The blue-haired blunder again. Because that's in no way stalkerish. And just his luck, I'm heading to Goodwitch's combat training.

"I ignored you the first time," I say, not looking up as I load a message from Signal—it seems I forgot to disarm my locker, and they're having trouble with that. "I'll shoot you the next." And I just keep walking, not even breaking stride.

"Huh. Weird," Wenge complains. "Usually no one's dumb enough to talk to you when I'm here." Neon nods, agreeing. No one in Beacon's that dumb, at any rate, because everyone here knows my reputation. Or they realise the gentle giant has claws and fangs and is super protective of me.

"He probably has a Faunus teammate that's really friendly," Tiff says and blows some gum. That makes sense. Not that it'll earn any—

"Yo."

"Listen," Wenge says as his hand lands on my elbow, no doubt having noticed me reaching for Moon. "Who are you speaking to?"

"Name's Neptune." His eyes are focused on Tiff—thank fuck! "I'm from Haven, so I'm new around here. You mind showing me around?"

I send Signal a text saying I'll swing by this weekend to deal with that and close my scroll, stuffing it into my hoodie for safekeeping. The second Tiffany decides this is worth a rumble, it's on.

"So not my type," Tiff says and rolls her eyes. She wraps her arm around my elbow, for some reason, and tugs me along, letting the boys take up the rear. "Ive. If he talks to me again. You have my blessing to shoot him." I grin.

**_8-8_**

* * *

My foot taps impatiently as the lift door closes. Arms cross. Sun's pommel nudges me, tempts me. I fish out a shock-mag, trading the reg-mag already in Moon's ass, and I make damn sure to pull the slider back to keep one in the chamber.

Door opens with the dull ping, and I storm right the fuck out already activating my aura. Unsurprisingly, my least favourite migraine stands there. If there was anyone in the fucking Atlesian dick-measuring contest they call a military dumb enough to so openly piss me off, it's him.

"General Ironwood," I intone, unsheathing Sun and unholstering Moon. The man stands there, arms crossed behind his back, facing away from me. His white uniform grates on me, even as it rouses every idle demon within.

Ozpin merely cocks an eyebrow.

"It's," Ironwood turns halfway, turning his head to 'take a good look', his eyes holding great pain, but his tone as warm as ever, "good to see you again, Ms D—"

Moon's safety clicks off. "I made my stance clear. I am not returning to Atlas. Not the kingdom, not the city, and sure as fuck not the people."

"Of course, Ms DeWitt. That's not being debat—"

"Then why was I summoned?" I ask, sneering at the cock dribble. "And why are you just so happening to be in the neighbourhood? There's supposed to be an entire fucking ocean that separates us." I knew we should have gone to Vacuo.

"Ivory," Ozpin soothes. "I hadn't expected you for another half hour, at least. You were in class, after all."

"Yeah. I was in _combat_," I slide my left foot forward, shifting my weight to my right, and keeping my stance like I'm actually attacking someone from behind me, "class, the one time I'm allowed to fucking walk around armed on campus. Do you think I'm going to pass that up when Major Kiss-ass here has his usual fucking business card flaunting about the Valean skyline?"

"I meant, I hadn't expected you two to run into each other," Ozpin tries again. "Please stow your weapons."

"Let me guess," Ironwood turns fully to me, arms still folded behind him. He used to seem larger than life—though he's still easily two heads taller than me, he isn't all he once was. Not to me. "Jacques Schnee?"

Sun's pommel dial spins, her blade-edge glowing cyan.

"I thought as much. When I heard he was coming to Vale, I suspected his daughter wasn't his main focus."

"That's quite enough, James." Goodwitch's unbending tone rings out, her tell-tale staccato clapping the marble behind me. I snap to her, Sun at the ready to bisect her. I fucking knew some shitfaced asshat was going to sneak up behind me. "Ivory, stand down."

"One headmaster," I aim Moon at Ozpin, "with a history of refusal to engage in my questions. One headmaster," Moon aims for Ironwood's crotch, "who's selectively deaf and/or blind. And a professor who refuses to acknowledge my stance is not without merit. How about I ignore that order, and one of you fuckwits explains why I'm here."

"I summoned you," Ozpin says, steepling his fingertips, "because I want to continue our previous discussion."

"The one where you spoke in riddles," I sneer, my gaze returning to Goodwitch so I don't lose my shit and start a body count, "or the one you asked if I have questions after ignoring all of them?"

"The one where you asked what I want from you," Ozpin says, keeping his tone as soothing as ever.

Another marriage proposal. Just fucking dandy. I engage Moon's safety and lower both weapons as I turn to the lift. "I have enough old men telling me who to fuck," I say, glaring at Goodwitch as I stroll past.

Goodwitch reaches out to grab my arm, but stops cold when my still very much glowing sword blade gets in her way.

"Was there anything else, Professor Ozpin?" I ask.

"This," how like Ironwood, to not accept he isn't the centre of attention, "isn't what Iris—"

Sun clicks into snake-form and lashes at Ironwood, phases to go right through Ozpin, who's suddenly right in the way…

Only for Ozpin's walking staff to block the attack anyway.

I reel Sun back in, curious that the cyan light was also dispersed in one shot, and sheathe. Blade, sheath—all of Sun feels cold. I thought as much. Moon gets stuffed back into her holster as well. Neither will do me any good against someone that prepared for me.

I point to Ozpin and say, "Refusal to engage," I point to Ironwood, "selectively deaf and blind," and I practically shove my finger in Goodwitch's face, "and refusing to admit where I'm right. Tell me again why I should listen to anyone present, when no one here does anything but talk _at_ me."

Silence. Not that I was expecting anyone to actually admit I'm not wrong about anyone in this room. No one ever listens to 'a mere child' after all. I walk off, calm as a Sunday's stroll, and press the button to summon the lift.

"Just what did you say to her, James?" Goodwitch demands, as the lift door opens.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Mouth off," I intone as I glare at Goodwitch. "I fucking dare you." She smiles, serene as the sunrise lighting up the sky over the Bullhead I'm supposed to be piloting for this 'mission'. The grassy meadow it's parked in is without a doubt the worst place for an airship, but it isn't mine so that isn't my problem. Instead of words, Goodwitch offers me a file. The official dossier, no doubt.

I flip it open. The flight plan takes the scenic route over Vale. And ain't it just a coincidence. It's just the two of us. Gee. How convenient. So much for the 'patrol' we were supposed to take, or whatever. And who names a ship 'TF4'?

Instead of worrying about the details, I simply go through my pre-flight checks—check for any signs of ware, dust levels, maintenance log; the boring shit.

Once everything's checked, we board and head for the cockpit. It looks exactly like the sim, other than that there's no Winchester to fuck up my day, or Neon for backup. Curiously, Goodwitch motions to the pilot's seat.

"You are, after all, the only licenced pilot on this vessel," she says. I roll my eyes and plop into the pilot's seat, strapping in. Headset claps on, and I radio in.

"Beacon Tower, this is Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Did you receive flight plan Alpha Uniform November Six Eight Four One? Over."

**"Affirmative, Foxtrot."** Don't recognize the voice, but I don't care. **"You're scheduled for lift-off in four minutes. How's your pre-flights coming? Over."**

"Have no cargo or passengers to contend with. This is purely a pleasure cruise. I could be blindfolded and be ready on time, over."

Laughter comes. **"I hear that, Foxtrot. Just be sure to stand your ground with the guests. They've been pushy with our pilots. Over."**

I click the highest button on both sides of the steering, and the rotation symbol lights up in my headgear. Beacon Tower no doubt sees that as well. "Copy that, Beacon Tower. Over and out." I make sure to click off the mic—there's exactly a zero percent chance Goodwitch isn't going to strum up a conversation at some point. So there's no reason to broadcast the specifics thereof.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Goodwitch asks.

"If by _it_ you mean the general, then no." Pre-flight diagnostics boot up with a click. I go nice and slow, priming the engines, starting all my systems.

"Your stance on Atlesian men," she corrects. I snort, shaking my head.

"You've read my file. What more is there to say?" I hold up a finger to tell her to shut it, and click on the mic. "Beacon Tower. This is Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Engines are purring. What's the weather like? Over."

**"This is Vale. Over."** Point taken.

"Not my fault it's part of the protocol to ask. Over," I say with an obvious smile in my tone.

**"You're a smartass aren't you, Foxtrot. Over."**

The smile doesn't go anywhere, and I know he can hear it. "Guilty as charged. Requesting permission for take-off according to the blandest flight plan you know I didn't come up with, over."

I get six different chuckles, and an amused snort. **"Permission granted, Foxtrot. Should be no traffic to contend with. Over and out."**

I click off the mic and lift-off. It's a boring, shallow arc up onto a pretty basic scenic route.

Sigh. "How many men have proposed to you?" I ask. Vale stretches out beneath before us. The shopping centres, the business district, the industrial sector, the slum—every city has one, whether people like to admit it or not. Hell, even the promenade is easy enough to pick out from here.

"I…" I don't dare look to Goodwitch—don't want to see her piecing this together. "Not many."

"I average two a week. Not because I'm that desirable. Not because I'm rich. Not because I'm sweet as honey and attract people. My grandfather was Mantle's last king. So it's always either someone wants their descendants to inherit my title, or they want the privilege of fucking a legit princess. Nothing more."

"They want you to quell a potential uprising?" she asks. Good question, really. Haven't kept in touch with much of anyone in Atlas to know the current political climate.

"Fuck if I know. Fuck if I care," I say, shaking my head in disgust. "Mantle gives even less of a shit than I. The whole city's a slum. And no one in the slums cares about old world titles. Especially since most of them descend from slaves."

I fish out some dark shades and slip them on. Ship leans oh so slightly to one side, bringing the rising sun right into view. Goodwitch grunts in complaint, though I'm not sure why. She saw the flight plan, the next twenty minutes is facing east, at eight in the morning. Duh.

"So the Bruins…?" she asks.

"If your intention is to get all buddy-buddy with me, I will crash this ship and kill us both."

"I'm trying to understand how to help you, Ivory." Sure you are. Everyone is suddenly altruistic, just trying to be a friendly face. Uh huh. "Your file shows what happened, not how you reacted to it."

Sigh. All this, and not even trying to seduce me. I have the worst luck with women. "Wenge isn't into girls. So what's your story?"

"I'm very much heterosexual, thanks." I roll my eyes. Just saying it like that makes me doubt, but it's obvious I'm not getting a tongue on my clit in this fucking academy either. Sigh. Why is it so easy to have men fawning over me, yet so hard to find a single chick I can lose my virginity to? Maybe I should look into married women?

"I was asking about your backstory," I say, struggling to keep the annoyance out of my tone. "Or is this all about me?" You wouldn't be the first to take the approach. Not even the first professor—first at Beacon, yeah sure.

"Middle daughter to a farmer."

I wait. There's got to be more to it than that. And yet, nothing more is said. All about me and learning how to manipulate me into whatever she needs. Wonderful. Never faced that before.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I plop into my bed. It was nice seeing Signal again, but nothing changed about it. And it's not like that damn flight with Goodwitch did anything positive for me. If anything, it gave her more ammo to lob at me when the time is right—ammo I'm used to countering, so that's fine.

Sigh. Too tired to move, too wired to sleep. Always trapped.

Whatever. I fish out my scroll. Maybe an emotional gut-punch is just what I need to really call today the ultimate fuck you.

I load Sage's messages, flicking up to where I stopped reading.

_Sage: "Ivory. I'm so pissed with you I can barely see straight…"_

Sigh. At least I'm not in tears over it anymore.

_"…barely see straight. First you're okay with me, then you're not. One second you're a bitch, then you're super sweet. Then it's back to bitch again. What did I do to you?"_

A fair question, really. She did nothing, but what does that change? I flick up, loading the next message.

_Sage: "You confuse me. I looked you up, so I know your parents died in that fire. But then Mrs Bruin invited me over. That didn't make sense, until I saw you. You probably don't remember, but while you were drunk, you told me that I have some woman named Iris's eyes. Who is she? Why do you push me away when you know what I've been through?"_

Sigh. Go back to being pissed, please. Anger's easier to cope with.

_Sage: "Mrs Bruin invited me over to talk. Without you. If you don't respond, I'm going to accept. We both know she's the type to lay her cards on the table. And we both know she'll tell me the whole story. Ball's in your court."_

Fuck. That was a week before Mrs Bruin told me she came over.

_Sage: "I'm sorry."_

Two words. Everything else I could take. But two words have me in tears.

"Yo, twinkle toes." Wenge's booming voice fills our shared dorm. "Get off your lazy butt. We're going out. Getting shit-faced. And no, I'm not taking a rain check."

"I hate you."

"Maybe," Wenge says, plopping onto my bed behind me. His hand ghosts over my back, before his fingers work their way into my buzz cut. "But you need a drink. And a forty ain't gonna cut it."

"Not tonight, baby bear."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Sigh. I drag my feet along. The late shuttle takes off behind us, leaving Team WITE in the mostly empty urban landscape, under Vale's street lights as we make our way to wherever the fuck these assholes are 'not dragging' me to.

"Tiff!" My nose snaps to the loud ass shouting, recognizing Xiao Long's voice anywhere. Teams JNPR and RWBY. And blue-hair, along with three other boys—some sun-shiny blond, a coppery red-head with an undercut, and some neck-tattooed piece of work with dark green highlights. Sigh. Of fucking course.

"You do realise," I mutter, glaring at baby bear, "that I'm armed and already not in the mood for people?"

"I need you," Wenge murmurs right back, his hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently, "to trust me."

I pull my hoodie up over my head, letting the seals and the poorly rendered wireframes be my company tonight. Everyone does the social thing—names get exchanged, people say polite shit, and they agree on where the fuck it is I'm being carted off to.

Which, of fucking course, ends up being Twinkles.

"Don't worry, Sun," Wenge says, patting the shoulder of the one with four flintlock-styled pistols on his lower back and under his jacket, his monkey tail dancing about excitedly. "They're cool about serving Faunus here."

"Yeah," Tiff says, rushing over to the bouncer. "We come here all the time. Ain't that right, stud?"

"Boss's been asking 'bout you," what's-his-face, the bouncer Tiff is into, says, sounding amused. "I actually had to work." Great, that means the other bouncer called in sick again—and this being the Friday crowd with the Vytal fest already underway, that means it's gonna be busy as all fuck.

We're shown in immediately, of course, so I break off from the crowd and head straight for the bar.

"Yo, Ive," Azul says, already pouring me a scotch. "I'll send the regular up for you." I nod, grab the lowball glass, the tinkle of ice cubes setting me at ease as I make my way through the crowd again, ignoring the barrage of greetings from the familiar faces, Faunus and humans alike, and up into the VIP lounge. Luckily, no one's up here. I swear, if the club owner didn't offer us free bites and booze to have a huntsmen team nearby for rowdy patrons, I'd stop coming here altogether.

It isn't long before Wenge makes his way up to join me, bringing his little fox-boy with him. Somehow that opens the floodgates for the whole asshole brigade to come up, including Neon's fashionista. Logically, the bouncer needs to stay by the front door; poor asshole.

A woman comes, carrying a tray with snacks—chicken fingers, fries, mozzarella sticks, and a chicken sandwich. Her wolf's tail tucked between her legs as she comes straight to me.

Sigh.

She sets my usual don't-get-drunk treats out for me, and flips back my hoodie. Smiling yellow eyes greet me, like nothing in the world is wrong—like everything that happened is water under the bridge. Oh yeah, Mrs Bruin dished alright. Every last fucking detail.

Whatever.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"I still don't get it," monkey-boy complains, sipping his water. "Do you guys own the place?"

I roll my eyes, munching on my fries as Sage brings another round of snacks for Team WITE. The others all have to pay for their shit—so sad.

The deejay makes that weird scratchy sound. Ah fuck. Already?

"That's right, y'all!" the deejay's obnoxious voice rings out. Music shifts from the easy going Reggae, to a more upbeat thing; whatever the hell is popular this week. "It's Twinkles. It's Friday. And we all here to have a good time. So get your ass on the dance floor! And let's! Get! Funky!"

Everyone gets all excited, and they practically fly towards the staircase, rushing to get all sweaty and grope each other in public. I roll my eyes, sipping my white wine without a care.

Of course. With no one else here, Sage decides to join me, helping herself to my fries.

"You've been quiet all night." Sage's upbeat tone doesn't match the sudden pain in her eyes.

"You spoke to Mrs Bee. What more is there to say?" I grab a chicken finger and bring it to my lips, but somehow don't feel hungry.

Sigh. It would have been so much easier if she didn't understand. If she couldn't understand, I could just get laid, we'd have a fight about me being so dedicated to my work, and I'd have the moral high ground, with me wanting to be all noble and dedicating my life to protecting the people of Remnant.

But no. Instead she has to be all down to earth and relatable and shit.

Sigh.

This is why combat is so much easier to manage—people are less prone to thinking, and emotions have no use other than getting killed in a hurry.

"Thank you for the pistols," Sage whispers into my ear, like telling me a secret—like telling me all her secrets. "I'm not very good with them, of course. I never was a good shot."

Her breath is warm on my cheek, on my ear, on my neck. Her hand reaches over, her finger captures my chin, and gently, oh so softly and silkily, nudges me to look at her. To look to her.

"Please," I murmur, looking away. The touch of her callused hand, rough like sandpaper, the way her nail feels dragging across my skin. "Please don't."

"Why did you get drunk that day?" she asks. She doesn't try to touch me again, carefully pulling her hand back and laying it on the table top, where I can see it. But she doesn't stop whispering into my ear all the same.

"I'm always drinking," I say as I grab another chicken finger and dip it into some random sauce and shove it into my mouth. Fuck. Of course it ends up being the gods-damned sambal. Fuck the sambal.

"Hmm." The smile all too obvious in her tone hints she knows more than she should. More than even Mrs Bruin would know to clue her in on. Wenge, you fucking traitor. "I'mma head back. Let me know when you're available for shooting lessons?"

She finally pulls away. Her circular tray in hand, she turns and walks towards the railing, towards the stairs to head back to work. She doesn't even wait for the confirmation, as if knowing it's already hers.

As if knowing I'm already hers.

That's arrogance on a level I can scarcely put into words. So why are there butterflies in my tummy?

**_8-8_**

* * *

I glare. The mess hall is full of the usual hubbub and hassle, if with a few dozen extra assholes—international assholes, for a change, but still.

"Give me one reason," I say. It's my own fucking teammates that are pissing me off, though.

"Alright, take it easy," Wenge says as he motions for me to calm down, eyes shining with worry. "This was my idea, so hear me out." That is a good reason. But still, best not to let the big baby know I'm already sold.

My eyebrow cocks.

"Look," Wenge mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fact of the matter is, Tiff and Em need—"

"Huh," some scantily clad chick with mint-green hair and red eyes says as she looks over her shoulder just as she was passing our team table. For some reason, her gaze is on me, like she's trying to identify me. "Do I know you?"

"Tiffany Tulip and Eminence Neon," Wenge continues, glaring at the brash little shit barging into our team talk, "need some strong long-range. So please. As a personal favour?"

The green-haired ditz puts her hand on her hip, looming over Neon's shoulder. "Hey. You're that—"

"Emerald!" Rose pounces the intruder, and drags her well away from our table. "Seriously, don't. They're really nice people, but they get a bit stabby if people they don't know well talk to them." That's just me, mostly, and I shoot long before I need to stab. Still, point to Rose.

"Stabby?" mint-hair asks with a cocked eyebrow.

"Yes, stabby," Rose says as she drags the girl along. But this…Emerald, still has her gaze on me, for some reason. "You see the silver-haired girl? She beat my whole team during a spar just because Blake got dust on her shoe, while she was on the phone."

"So anyway," Wenge says and coughs into his hand, trying to get back on track now that the distraction is well away from us. "Please? For me?"

I roll my eyes.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Sigh. Back to the fucking drawing board. Wenge makes sense, don't get me wrong—wanting Neon and Tiff to have rifles and all that. But why the fuck can't they just design it themselves? Or buy one. Or just not fucking include me in this shit.

Whatever.

They'll need it to be pure long-range, since they have their short-range weapons and gear already. We're talking grimm-fest, so it'll need both crowd control and sniping. Hmm, might need to switch quickly, so shifting from one role to the other is bullshit. How about double-barrelled? Only, one as a Designated Marksman Rifle, with the other as a grenade launcher? Use the trigger as the mechanism for sniper-fire, and a button for grenades? That could work.

But the grenade launcher could potentially have more kick than…well, that depends on the kick used to launch it…how do I want to launch the grenades? And should they be timed, explode on contact, be able to have options? I mean, it would be useful as fuck to have sticky proximity mines…

I love designing new weapons, but come the fuck on. I've got weeks, not the years I used to perfect Sun. Sigh. And while it won't need to shift, not as dramatically as Sun, at any rate…it does need to collapse to be portable. And while I'm at it, Moon really does need those extended mags.

And what happens if the grimm have some sort of long-range attack? They'll be defenceless. Not to mention the probability of flying grimm, depending on where we are. And that chin-mounted Gatling gun is great for nevermores, but if we face a leviathan or anything with major clout, we're in for some deep shit.

Gods damn it. Why am I doing this again?

**_8-8_**

* * *

I glare. The old man looks uncomfortable. He sweats, eyes widen, as he swallows hard.

"Terribly sorry, miss. But with all the recent robberies, if I don't raise my prices, I'll—"

"Raised price, I expected," I intone as my finger idly drums on the glass counter. "But this is extortion." The crystal directly under my digit, just a month ago, was three-hundred Lien—the two-thousand on the price tag hints that's no longer the case.

"Please. Try to understand. Every dust shop in Vale…" The old man chokes on the words his tongue tries to form; my murderous glare might have something to do with it.

I don't wait for another word, I just turn and leave.

Back out into the city, into the placidity that is Vale. People go about their business, per the usual. The bars have their usual early drinkers, the cafés have their usual mid-afternoon crowds for a late lunch or early dinner. The children are still playing their games on the sidewalk with their chalk marking up the pavement.

Entering another dust shop, I ignore the owner and head straight for the displays. Every crystal is at least ten times the price it should be. This is a familiar stink, no doubt in my mind.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The lift door opens, at long last. I enter and turn on a dime, with Ozpin's gaze still on me as I press for the lobby and the doors close. The lift descends, leaving me to my thoughts.

Those words—_do what you feel you must_—they hint there's nothing he can, or will, do about this. But the signs are clear as fucking day. Someone's planning something, something big. With all the dust shop robberies, they'll have dust, crystalline and powder, by the metric fuckton—whoever 'they' are. They'll have a hampered enemy, given all of Vale's citizenry are now at a supreme disadvantage. Sure, the huntsmen are still going, but Vale has no standing army, unlike Atlas. And if something too big for the huntsmen happens…

The door opens and I head straight for the school store. I walk right over to the display, checking the price tags—same as always. Check the weapons on display, and prices—they seem about what I've come to expect. Shell casings, magazines, extended mags, accessories. All of it, exactly what I'd expect the price to be. Like they haven't noticed much of anything.

I fish out my scroll and check my account balance. Thirteen-thousand Lien—barely enough for a down-payment on a one bedroom apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. That job Goodwitch was talking about. She said it pays four-thousand, just for the pilot. Well, that's my budget. So let's see how I can maximize efficiency.

I dial a number.

_"You get thirty seconds,"_ Goodwitch answers.

"I need to use the printer again," I say, my tone coldly neutral. A long pause. Fuck. You give me a short timer, and you don't answer quickly? Sigh. Well, whatever. I could maybe scrounge up a proper marksman's rifle if I—

_"Granted." _The line goes dead. Scroll closes and stows in my hoodie pocket.

I head over to the raw materials section. Eighty Lien for a kilogram of spring steel—which is more than an assault-styled rifle should weigh. Hmm, titanium goes for one-forty-five Lien, and the carbon composite goes for one-eighty-two. An averagely sized crystal goes for sixty Lien, depending on the colour.

I'll need eight kilos of titanium and spring steel, six conductive spools, three kilos of the carbon composite, ten boxes of a thousand .444 calibre casings, four boxes of the ten-mil casings, ten boxes a hundred of three-inch grenade shell casings, and my usual spread of dust. And maybe two hides of raw leather? Better get carbon fibre reinforced cloth too—three bolts should do. In fact…since Wenge is being such a cunt about all this, his ass is getting put to work, too; so I'll need six hard-light, four ice, six water, and six gravity crystals.

**_8-8_**

* * *

A sole black canteen stands on my desk; cylindrical and sleek, just how I like it. Scroll opens, aura monitoring app loads. I grab the prototype, twist off the goblet-styled cap and turn it upside-down. Nothing falls out, logically. Holding it upright again, finger presses to the activation button and its water crystal gorges on my aura. It takes less than one percent—not nothing, but certainly not something to be concerned about.

Bottle's mouth comes to my lips and it upends. The water's lukewarm, room temperature. It doesn't taste bad, per se—a bit chalky from the mineral tablet to ensure it's not pure water, which would be all kinds of dangerous to drink. Still, maybe I should try shaking it first? Or install an auto-stirring feature? No, definitely the latter. And it needs to be chilled—hmm, but if we end up in mid-winter conditions, it'll need to be warm…

Alright, it needs a chill-heat option; maybe a temperature setting? We'll need a few hundred of those mineral tablets, just in case, and maybe the option of not adding it to the water so we can bathe and the like without costing us drinking water. Never know how things will turn out.

Scroll loads my notes, and I jot down the things I need to work out for the water system. Then I add a control app for the scroll—would definitely simplify things, and that would allow for tracking progress and making notes of what needs to be bought in the next town, should it come to that. At least Tiff will have something to contribute to all this—lazy hoe that she is.

Speaking of winter. A personal heater could save lives. And in case we wind up in Vacuo, maybe a personal air conditioner? That'll be interesting, but lower priority for now.

Right. Meals. MREs are the best option, and the school store stocks them. So that should help quite a bit. What else?

Turning to check, my bed has a dozen knapsacks. Each has a bedroll, pillow, linens, fire starter kit, a book with detailed maps of every place I could find online along with air current maps in case we score an airship. Each comes equipped with its own pistol, just like Moon, along with a healthy stash of loaded mags—no dust-rounds, but they're backup weapons, not primaries. Proper goggles, in case we get stuck in a dust, sand, or snow storm, coupled with night vision and a proper gasmask with air monitoring app already loaded to my scroll. I've downloaded an herb, fungi, and plant identifier app on my scroll, along with a campfire cooking app that lets you input what ingredients you have to search the recipes you can try with them.

Right. That's most of the issues I remember—better check my 'camping' textbook to onfirm. Just need to rework the water bottle, get Tiff to make the app I'll need for it, and get down to those assault rifles.

Hmm. Went quicker than I thought it might. Maybe I have time for those cameras and monitoring system? Maybe some proximity mines? That would be nice, being able to set traps and the like.

How many MREs will we need? Plan for four meals a day…Tawny, Mrs Bruin, Mr Bruin, Wenge, Neon, Tiff, and—

My scroll vibrates. _1 New Message from Sage._

_Sage: "Tomorrow's Saturday, so we both know you're free. My shift doesn't start until 7. I'm coming to Beacon, we're doing lunch, and you're showing me how to fire and care for these pistols."_

And Sage and me. That's eight people. An extra four in case of fuckups, or we get lucky and round up another huntsmen team for added security—only JNPR or RWBY would make me not cringe, but survival over comfort.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Neon, Tiff, and Sage stare. Eyes wide, jaws low, the firing range deathly quiet as if no one's brain functions quite right. I roll my eyes and toss Wenge what looks like a case, long and thick as his forearm, and nearly two kilos—not the heaviest rifle I've worked with, given Sun is nearly five kilos.

"Trigger only works the DMR…"

Sage blinks, her eyes suspiciously glassy.

"DMR. Designated Marksman Rifle. It's a step down from a true sniper rifle, but is far more accurate than a standard rifle. Anyway. Trigger works the hammer. It's right-handed, so just above where your thumb naturally falls there's a single dial with two settings. One round and three-burst. The safety is to the front of the trigger guard. Left hand needs to hold it about here," I tap the leather grip with my finger, "where your grenade launcher controls are. Grenade mag has two distinct bays, and the dial there switches from safety to bay one to bay two. How you load your mag is on you. Options include proximity mine, timed grenade which is set to five seconds as a standard, and rocket propelled grenade which explodes on impact."

Wenge grins, pressing the button in the case's corner. The rifle shifts out, with two barrels—the longer one on top, the shorter one much thicker below, though covered for now.

"It comes with the standard iron sights, and if you flick the trigger forward, the scope shifts out. Nothing special, just a two to fifty times magnifier, but it comes with all the fun stuff, including night vision. The scope is only useful for sniping. So don't be a smartass and try to use it with the grenade launcher."

I grab the other two cases and toss them to Neon and Tiff. Then comes the three leather straps with carbon fibre fittings.

"Straps are optional. Or you can damn well design or buy your own." I take the three knapsacks and toss those and the straps to them—though Wenge is handed his, for obvious reason. With my bit handled, I fish out my scroll and send them the text already typed out, with the apps and manuals added. "That should cover everything. Manuals for the rifles, everything. It includes a step by step guide to making your own rounds. So unless your name is Wenge Bruin, don't fucking ask me to make them for you."

Sage checks her scroll, her chin hanging barely an inch from the floor. I shake my head, walking away—leaving one last case and bag unattended, with a leather strap tying them together.

And why is mint-hair staring at me? The fuck is she even doing here? Whatever, it's the firing range, so it's not like people aren't allowed in.

"I believe this one's yours," Wenge says, no doubt offering Sage the package.

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter One_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Sorry this took so long. I had a few major hiccups to iron out, but I can now happily say that most of Volume 2 is done and will be uploaded fairly quickly over the coming days/weeks. There's still minor things (spelling mostly) to sort through.  
_**

**_Many thanks to Setokaiva (my beta-reader) for his patience and insights that keep me from making the major fuck-ups. _**


	8. V2:C2—I'll set the beat

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Two, Chapter Two—I'll set the beat**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

Late afternoon sun beats down on the café terrace as my dessert fork clatters against my little plate. I'm still not sure about the little berries—fuck the berries. But the double dutch chocolate cake was yummy and the brandy-flavoured ice cream hit the spot.

Schnee sits opposite me, looking about as interested in being here as I am. The heiress, thank fuck. The last thing I need is the pompous shit again. But I'm doubly thankful she paid for everything.

Sigh. Stupid guilty feeling. I don't want to be here. While it's a change of pace, having a cute girl trying to convince me to fuck her brother isn't a step up.

Napkin taps against my lips, and is dropped, rumpled, onto my plate. I speak the first words since we sat down. "You've had your meal with me. You may report to your father that it was a complete and total failure, and without me being a shrew to you. Tell him whatever you wish on the matter."

Schnee's chest expands and contracts, her lips all but glued together in a tight smile to make the mute sigh less obvious. It isn't hard to tell she's used to being in power, while also having to play nice with arrogant little shits; a fate worse than death, if my opinion matters.

"It's not that simple," Schnee says. "There's an—"

"Marriage agreement," I interrupt. Arranged marriage, marriage agreement, old-timey pact between old fucks who their daughters will fuck. Same difference. "Between my father and yours. They agreed to it while in school. To join the bloodlines, like the _good old days_. He told me. What he doesn't realise, is that there are over twenty claimants with the same tale. Some even have it in writing. Funny. None of it was written in father's handwriting. None of it had mother's seal of approval. None of it follows even the most basic protocol. So your father's claim joins the others I've long since written off as fraudulent. Tell him I said fuck off in any polite way you like. I'm not marrying your brother."

Schnee opens her mouth.

"No," I say. "I'm not marrying your sister."

Schnee gets a faraway look in her eyes, her lips part again.

"And I can't stand you." Her mouth closes at last. "Tell your father you tried." I stand.

"Please," she begs. Between the quick clip, and the sheer panic in her eyes, I'm guessing she's the fall-girl in their relationship. Sucks to be her. "Please. Look, I'm not trying to change your mind. I just want to…" That's what a lie sounds like. "Get to know you better. See if maybe we can…become friends?"

So he's threatening to take away her money if she doesn't play nice with me. And this is my problem, because…? "I'll tell you what," I say as I lean forward, my fingertips pressing into the merlot tablecloth. "If you don't give me a thousand Lien, I'm going to find a puppy and torture it."

She jerks back, eyes narrowed.

"You heard me," I say, my tone cold as my glare dulls and I lean even further but not quite in her personal space just yet. "Do as I say, give me what I want, or that innocent puppy is going to suffer. And it'll all be your fault."

"That's blackmail!"

I lean in further, getting up in her face about it. She leans well away, backing up as far as her chair and basic physics will allow without tilting her chair, clearly uncomfortable with my proximity.

"Exactly," I say and walk away.

**_8-8_**

* * *

A sole gravity crystal sits on my desk, another in my hand. The theory is quite clear. These can be used to attract and/or repulse things. Each other, the planet. But the thing is, it requires precise usage, weights, and a whole fuckton of variables that were described so vaguely they could mean practically anything. So, how does this work?

I offer the crystal in my hand some of my aura. It lights up, clearly doing what it's meant to. Not sure what that is, or if my Semblance is affecting it in any way. But it certainly isn't affecting the other stone, or much of anything; not from what I observe.

Hmm. Maybe this only works if combined with other crystals, or even dust, to power them in a specific way to give the desired effect? Will need to get my hands on more specialized research on the matter, but I just don't know enough.

Alright. So that's a bust, for now at least. Maybe I could try to hover something with it instead?

I take a book and rest it on the gravity crystal on my desk. Fingertip pokes crystal's side and my aura pours into it. The crystal lights up, as expected. But nothing happens. Hmm. Maybe they react differently to different stimuli? I make a note about getting my hands on some electric crystals and dust, and set both uncut crystals back into my knapsack.

With that done, I save this cluster of notes, and load my seals cluster. Alright, so my current hoodie is no longer sufficient. What I need is to replace the echo matrix with a different option. Sure, with the current six frequencies I can see basic shapes and through some basic materials, but it makes combat damn near impossible with the low resolution and abysmal optimal radius.

Maybe I could use fire dust instead of hard-light? It should allow for infra-red vision, which should give me quite a different method of sight, and see where that takes me. Or maybe I could do both, but instead of hard-light dust, use micro-crystals and see if I can tweak the seal to allow for better resolution? That's probably for the best.

It would mean creating a whole new seal, given this one works best with dust. Hmm. I'm not sure I'm skilled enough to create seals yet. Mum might have…

So I'll need to get a book on gravity crystals and powder. Maybe check the…that would mean getting into Atlesian research. Yeah, no. Fuck no.

"Ivory." I turn to the sound. But there are only four empty beds and a closed window with drawn curtains. The others are at the firing range, so why did I hear mum's voice?

You're just tired, Ivory. You're tired, and your brain is just used to mum calling for afternoon tea. That's all it is. You're just tired.

And tea sounds fucking divine just now.

I close my scroll and pack all my things in my knapsack, stuff that into my recently secured closet where it'll be safe, and head out. Afternoon tea with some chocolate and strawberry éclairs sounds right up my fucking alley.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The mess hall is quiet as I make my way to an empty table. There are a few people around. But not many, thankfully. Tray sets down. My legs phase through the seat, I sit and cross my legs at the ankles.

The tea bag pulls out of the dark depths of my white mug. The scent of Darjeeling fills my world, stirring things best left alone. A splash of whole cream, three teaspoons of bastard sugarcane sugar, and the little wooden spoon swirls the brew, the ensuing whirlpool bringing a smile to my face.

Mum used to tell me I was always so curious. Always asking questions, always wanting to understand more. She wasn't wrong, of course. Everything fascinated me, but it was the numbers behind them that were just…

That one could calculate the optimal rate of mixing of liquids. That one could take naturally occurring phenomena like vapour condensing on the window, and recreate that. It was…it was a magic that only ever fascinated me. And then I found dust. Powder's efficacy being affected by the surface area of the granules, crystal's reactions depending on the aura offered and their shapes continually affecting the flow of their effects.

Mum would regale me with all the theories over afternoon tea, always and only ever held in her laboratory as if to get me accustomed to focusing in so…riveting an environ.

The beakers with dust solutions. The crystals wedged together with little more than clothespins. The books upon books crowding the bookshelves and the tables and…and the scent. Spent dust from her experiments lined everything but her beakers.

And those eyes, those yellow eyes that always lit up as she regarded me. The smile that never quite reached her lips as I hung on her every word, craving her attention as utterly as she enjoyed giving it to me.

Porcelain mug kisses my lips; I gently blow the billowing steam. A sip, seeming more a muted slurp. Part of me craves those stale butter cookies mum always kept in that old aluminium tin in the tea cupboard, with those flimsy rice paper things stuck to the bottom. Part of me hopes to wake up in my old bed, in my old life, in that rundown ratty mansion that was falling apart faster than we could repair it.

Just mum and me. The way she'd constantly badger me about not slouching, and getting on my case for every little mistake in my scripting and calligraphy lessons.

_How could you ever master our family's seals if you can't even write a zed properly. Do it again._

Another sip. The light filtering in through windowpanes seems blurred. Must be steam in my eyes, or something.

I sip the piping hot tea, slowly whittling away at the reservoir. Until at last the last drop enters me. All that stupid steam. Who needs it.

I phase through the table, taking my tray with me to the drop-off point near the exit. Now seems like a good time to make shit explode. Yeah. Maybe that'll help clear the stupid steam.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Eighteen targets drunkenly hover about. Different altitudes, different ranges, different random patterns; all holograms glow in the otherwise dim shooting range.

On the ledge in front of me, six rifle reg-mags are lined up side by side. With one magazine of simple timed grenades, set to five seconds. Seven-hundred and twenty rounds, with twenty grenades.

"You need to talk about it," Wenge says. Instead of answering, I snap the rifle to my shoulder and flick the trigger forward to shift up the scope and I just go to town, raining bullets down on the targets.

Every time an intelligible syllable reaches me, mostly during reloading, I launch a grenade and snipe it before it even reaches the height of its arc. The scent of spent dust, the continuous pounding of the rifle's butt into my shoulder, the migraine-worthy mini explosions not more than a hand's-breadth from my ear that the earmuffs don't dull entirely.

It's almost enough. Almost enough to drown out the concern in Wenge's voice. But never quite gets there.

"Ive."

Rifle snaps up, button pressed. Another grenade launches. Rifle's muzzle snaps down and trigger squeezes. Another explosion. No light, just concussive force that tears into me like a two-by-four to the face.

The monochrome green targets all flicker red as a loud buzz sounds out. The little screen to my right shows how I did.

**_635 rounds fired_**

**_616 bulls-eyes hit_**

**_97.01% accuracy_**

**_Timer: 180 seconds_**

**_DeWitt, I. score down 2% from average_**

**_Go another round?_**

Finger stabs the no, and I gather my mostly empty magazines. Rifle clicks into its case form, and I sling it over my shoulder.

I stuff my mags into a tote bag and flick the earmuffs through the plate glass into the bin of returns—the clerk rolls his eyes, per the norm, and gets back to reading his comic book.

"Ive," Wenge says and drapes his arm over my head. "Who're you taking to the dance? Only two days left, you know."

"What makes you think I'm going?" I ask, honestly curious.

"Because I'll be there. Because Tiff'll be there. Because Em'll be there." He raises a finger for each name counted, but a fourth finger goes up without a name. I roll my eyes and swat his arm off me and keep on walking. "Because Sage already got the day off and is currently out shopping for a little black dress."

I glare at him, annoyed with the obvious ploy. Wenge fishes out his scroll and clicks away, clearly unbothered. We make our way out of the training facility, out onto the main campus. It's pretty quiet, being a Friday night and all. Most everyone's out in Vale, doing their thing, I guess.

Except mint-hair. Again. And now she's there with that ass-backwards cunt that challenged Nikos today and forfeited after the first real exchange of blows—what was his name again? He has his gaze on Wenge, she has hers on me.

Then the brunette comes. Long black hair kept in a tactical ponytail. Cocky look in her eyes. Smug little upturn of her lips as she walks over to who I can only assume are her lackeys. Uh huh. Clearly in her mid- to late-twenties, if not early-thirties. She carries herself with an air of expectation, like she knows the world is meant to bow to her.

I elbow Wenge. He looks right at the trio. "Agreed," is all he says, and puts his scroll away.

We make sure not to alter our path as we approach. But for the most part, they seem content with just watching us.

They say nothing, do nothing, as we pass; their eyes bore into our backs as we put distance between us.

The Visigoths are at the gate.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I ring on the doorbell. Mrs Bruin opens up and invites us in. The air is tense as I walk right over to the dining room table and slip four knapsacks onto it. Sage is already seated, tears welling up in her eyes. Uh huh.

Wenge closes the door behind him and makes his way over to the kitchenette.

"Lemme guess," I say, meeting Sage's freaked out gaze without a hint of fear, "the White Fang is upping their recruiting, and your siblings are being dicks about getting you to join."

"They," Sage says as she nods, sending tears cascading down her cheeks. She tries to wipe them away, as if no one'll notice, of course. "They've been hanging around the bar." They're trying to get her fired so she has nothing to lose.

Mr Bruin joins us, and the Mrs takes Wenge's tote bag, putting the beers into the fridge to cool. It isn't a minute later that we each have a beer from Mr Bruin's stash.

"You know about all the recent dust shop robberies?" I ask as pop the cap on my beer and take a long pull.

"Yeah," Mr Bruin says with a nod. "Whatever they're planning. It's gonna be big."

"I want you out of Vale," I say. My beer claps onto the table. "Whatever this is, it's going critical before you know it."

"If it's the White Fang, they won't—"

"Mr Bee. I don't care if you think this is my ghosts haunting me." I glare at him, hoping to show him how seriously I mean this. "This is a familiar stink. And I am not losing my…"

Emotion wraps around my throat like a noose. I take another long pull of my beer, trying to swallow the pain.

"I'm not losing my…my family a second time," I say, my voice thick with emotion. Tears don't come, but they sting my eyes and burn in my chest all the same. "I don't want you in Vale when this goes down. I have rifles and survival gear ready for you, enough MREs to last the trip, and the Lien for the tickets and a buffer to tide you over for a few months. Go to Menagerie and stay there until this blows over. Wenge and I will come get you when it's safe."

"You think there's going to be a skirmish," Mr Bruin says as his brow furrows, his bright brown eyes gazing unblinking. "That the White Fang is going to mobilize."

"Let's look at the facts," I say, raising a finger. "Giant Atlesian mech rampaging through Vale killing twelve." Second finger rises. "Dust shops are targeted so regularly that all of them have to spike their prices, and even the importers are being hit. Or did that incident at the docks go unnoticed? So they have enough for an army," third finger raises, "and the White Fang just so happens to have the numbers. They're recruiting aggressively, and humans have fucked shit up enough that they will get almost every Faunus in Vale on their side. The Vytal Festival," last finger to offer on this hand, but it goes up all the same, "will ensure their message is felt across Remnant. And seeing as the Atlesian Military is here en masse, that means they at least suspect. This kingdom is about to be bent over while the world watches it get ass-fucked. And I don't. Want. You. Here when it happens."

Mr Bruin sips his beer, his gaze never leaving mine.

Oh my fucking gods. "You're rationalizing staying. Aren't you," I say. He sips his beer again, his expression not wavering in the least. "You figure because it's the White Fang, they won't target Faunus. Therefore staying is just as safe as leaving. Is that about right?"

"And you figure this is Mantle all over again," Mr Bruin counters. "Now I am not discarding what you've said. My family's safety is my number one concern. But what you're asking me to do is—"

"To take a paid vacation to Menagerie," I cut in. "Visit your family. Humour a little girl that you damn well know has been through this before and would know the signs."

"And the reason I would abandon my son and daughter…?" Mr Bruin asks.

"What's the first rule of combat?" I ask, as I pick up my beer and bring it to my lips. "Hmm?" I upend the bottle, downing the last of my beer.

"To evacuate the non-combatants," Wenge says, his hand on my shoulder to calm me down. "Dad, please. Ive isn't playing. There's one group in Beacon scouting everyone. Assessing our skills. And I don't mean the professors."

"Sounds like tournament prep to me," Mr Bruin says. "What you're showing me is that the White Fang has something big planned. But against the Atlesian Military, they don't stand a chance. Now, if you have something, anything, other than a few suspicious-looking types to justify leaving Vale, I'm all ears."

I nod, knowing all I need to. I stand and phase right through the table, open the fridge, and grab another beer. Without wasting words, I plop onto the couch and turn on the news.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Needle pulls the titanium fibre threading through cloth, sewing the two halves of what will become my new hoodie together one stitch at a time. My calligraphy brushes all lay drying beside six smoky brown beer bottles with the dust solutions I've been working with. The measuring cup lies upturned on a napkin to dry and the kitchen scale balanced atop it, its screen blank.

"Never listens," I mutter under my breath as the needle makes another pass through the thick layers.

"I'm listening," Wenge says. He sits to his desk, whittling away at another hard-light crystal, and brushing all the shards over into a plastic cup for when I'm ready for them.

Once I'm at the end, I loop back for a double stitch. This needs to be perfect, or it'll fall apart at just the wrong fucking time.

"You figure out those gravity crystals yet?" Wenge asks. Sigh. "I got you a book. All about gravity dust, powdered and crystalline. Including the schematics of how to put it into practice."

I pull the threading tight and cut the excess with my wire cutter. "Thanks."

"I should be thanking you," he says. He holds the prepared crystal in front of his desk lamp's naked bulb. "Dad's always been…a bit stubborn. But he means well."

"Hasn't changed since I met him," I say. My lips curl down, emotions wrap around my chest like a vice.

Unwilling to go there again, I fold the last hoodie and carefully place it on my bed, atop a pile of them, each a different size. Hoodies with protective seals, check. My hoodie with all the extra stuff I've been dreaming up, check. Trousers with self-warming and self-cooling seals, check. Hmm. Still missing jackboots and gloves and jackets.

With that handled, I open my scroll and load my notes, deleting the line for hoodies.

"Here," Wenge says. I didn't even hear him move, but he holds out a tote bag fat with a dozen little things in it that I can't make out.

I take the bag and set it on my desk, fishing out the contents one by one. The first thing I get is a picture frame with a family portrait. Tawny runs around wearing only knickers, her face all lit up, with Mr Bruin chasing after her. Mrs Bruin has one hand on her hip, the other held up in her typical stop-ignoring-me-while-I-scold-you fashion. Wenge seems the one being scolded, even as he holds me like a toddler. Probably me getting in trouble again for sneaking Mr Bee's beers.

My hair was still kept in a ponytail, the tip covering my ass even in the picture.

So Mr Bruin bought this stuff, huh. He always did know how to guilt me into listening to him. I set that aside and grab the rest of it. Books, the lot of it. One on designing airships, another on maintenance of the P46 Airbus, another has artistic renditions of mech-armour—I snort, amused. Mr Bruin always hated Atlas tech, but he loved reminding me that it was part of my cultural heritage.

The grav-dust book comes out, but the jacket slips revealing a leather-bound tome. The Gravity of the situation. A cheesy name, no doubt, but…the author's name.

_Dr S.R. Bruin._

"What, he never told you?" Wenge asks. "Dad was in the Atlesian Military. A researcher working on robotics and dust systems." So he was mom's colleague. That's how he knew about me.

Book opens. It's all hand-written. Schematics are hand drawn—with the added lines etched in to show it was done free-hand. How to activate them, how to manipulate them to actuate only the desired effect, and even which effects can be derived from them. The formulas of each plausible effect. It's all here.

Curious, I open the mech-armour book, finding more hand-written notes in the same cursive script. Everything from metallurgy theories to schematics on how to incorporate dust into their design and functionality.

"Got the first one for ya." I look up, finding Wenge blurry.

**_8-8_**

* * *

A knock at the door. Not sure who it is, but I'm positive I don't care. I dab some electric dust onto the bottom half of the gravity crystal and force my aura into the powder. Electricity arcs off my spasming finger as crystal glows violet and jerks the nearby top half gravity crystal to it. Oh fuck the hell yes.

Door opens. "Hey." Sage sounds unsure of herself. "Why aren't you dressed?"

"Because there's more to life than…"

Sage eases the door shut, eyeing the already drawn curtains. She leans back against the doorknob, facing me. Three-inch wedge heels. Clean-shaven legs, so smooth and soft I can't help but want to caress them. Little black cocktail dress, with a thin strip looping around her neck to fend off gravity. Sleeveless. The silhouette of her every curve just…and the way her tail curls to one side.

She let her silver hair down for the night, with a scrunchie tying the very end together and draping her mane over her left shoulder as if to show off how it covers her humble bust. Her silky locks gleam in the room's low lighting. Cherry red lips, so pouty and full. And her green and chocolate smoky-eye…

I…

I was…doing something.

Is it hot in here?

"Ivory" Her soft tone, and the way her eyes light up. The smile that doesn't quite reach her lips. "I feel like dancing. Put your things away, and let's go."

"Ah. Uh. Right. Uh, yeah. Just." I swallow hard, my palms suddenly sweaty.

I shake myself out of the stupor, and gather my things, phasing them through my closet door. Just in case, I grab one of the rifles and slip its strap around my waist, keeping it under my new hoodie so it's not as obvious. And I grab a pistol. You never know.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Omigod. Ember, how'd you…?" Rose has stars in her eyes as recognizes me. "Wenge was so sure you'd come, but not even Yang believed him."

I roll my eyes and offer Sage my elbow to escort her into the insanity. The hall is all niced up. Plenty of chairs to be antisocial on. A long table with punch and hors d'oeuvres. Streamers, colours, popular music playing. It's everything I feared it would be. Especially with pretty much all of Beacon in attendance. Including Oobleck and Port dancing their asses off with Ozpin and Peach. They're rhythmic. More I don't much care about.

We make a beeline right for the punch, picking up a few stragglers along the way. Wenge and his fox-boy, both in fancy tuxes, keep teasing me about not bothering to dress up. But Neon's fashionista openly admits she's amazed I came at all—something Tiff doesn't refute.

I lean into Sage's personal space and murmur, "Tell me someone spiked the punch." Sage swats me, her mouth forming a little 'o' as her chest shivers from the laughter she's trying so hard to hide. "No seriously. Something has to explain why the professors are dancing." Sage throws back her head and covers her mouth with her hand, her musical laughter filling the hall.

"It's doctor!" Neon mimics Oobleck's annoyed tone, even as he takes a regal pose. "I didn't get my PhD to be called professor." Tiff and I share a look and roll our eyes. That's exactly what Oobleck would say.

The hulking mass of what's-his-face looms behind Tiff—the bouncer she's into.

"Sorry I'm late," Mr Bouncer says. Tiff's eyes widen, her face slack. How'd he get a Sunday night off? "You look beautiful, Ms Tulip." Tiff's cheeks glow as her gaze softens and tears well up. She finally turns to her waistcoat-wearing date for the evening. Won't lie, he looks smart in his smoky blue suit and his clean-shave ugly mug isn't half bad.

It isn't long before the eight of us each have our plastic cups filled with fruity sweetness, including some fruit chunks.

Sage hands me her cup, mostly empty other than the fruits she clearly has no interest in eating. I upend the cup, emptying the fruits into my mouth. Not missing a beat, I head for the punch bowl and carefully scoop up some more for her, only the juice this time. I refill for me as well, getting a good chunk of the yummy fruit cocktail melange that sunk to the bottom, and head back over.

Laughter. The whole hall is filled with a kind of disbelieving laughter that draws our group's attention to Arc. He stands in the middle of the dance floor, fearlessly showing off his white cocktail dress and sneakers.

Not sure what's so funny.

"He so needs a purse to offset those shoes," Wenge's fox-boy says. Tiff and Neon's fashionista nod. Hmm. Maybe that's why the others are laughing?

"Gotta hand it to 'im," the bouncer says, impressed. "Takes a real man to wear a dress with confidence."

Sage takes a sip, oh so careful—probably expecting more of those fruit chunks. Her eyes narrow.

I lean in and murmur into her ear, "I'm about seventy percent sure there aren't any in there."

Yellow eyes drink me in, heavy-lidded and dilated pupil hinting she likes what she sees. She takes another pull, far more confident. Slowly, the cup tilts up more and more, until it's empty.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I press Sage against the shower stall wall, her hands desperately pulling my tank top over my head and tossing it wherever to join my hoodie. Her lips claim mine once again, stealing the very air from my lungs and making me dizzy.

Hands cup my ass, moulding me under her probing touch. Her lipstick presses and rubs against my naked lips as my fingertips work their way into her hair, rubbing her scalp. Calloused hand glides up my lower back, unlatching my bra while the other hand trails down my thigh.

"If. You. Want. Me." She sneaks in words between interspersed kisses. "To. Stop."

I reach down and pull her strap over her head and down between us to expose her perky breasts. She uses the opportunity to rob me of my bra.

The next thing I know, I'm pinned against the wall with her breasts smushed against mine. With my every breath, my nipples rake against her. Kisses trail down my jawline as she fumbles with my zipper. She's so eager to get me outta my pants, so I can't help but want to tease her a little.

My leg trails up her thigh. The angle makes it just a little harder for her to get what she wants. Instead of complaining, she nibbles and sucks at the tender flesh of my neck, intent on marking me, while her hands wrap around me and trails down my butt and between my thighs.

A moan escapes, soft and throaty, as she rubs my steadily moistening inner sanctum through my jeans. My fingertips trace down her sides, teasing a shiver and a giggle as she jerks away, trying to protect herself from me.

"Someone likes to play dirty," she says as she gently rakes her nails over my back, looking for any weak spots to tickle me back with. I fight it for as long as I can, but amused yellow eyes wordlessly tell me she's already onto me. I bite my lip, looking away, hoping to keep up face. Until she touches the tip of my spine.

I squeal and try to back away. A shame I'm against the wall. Not that that should stop me, but still. She bites her lip, eyes lit up. "You are ticklish, aren't you."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Team WITE marches along towards the Bullhead we'll likely be calling home for the next few weeks. Goodwitch is already standing at attention, watching us as we approach. I make an effort to not make my limp too noticeable, but frankly I'm in too good a mood to much care.

The others make their way up the ramp into the docking bay as I make my rounds to check if everything's in order. Goodwitch wordlessly hands me the file with the flight plan and all the boring shit. Apparently this is the same Bullhead as last time, or at least it goes by the same callsign.

"We're scheduled to meet our client in just over an hour," Goodwitch says. Client's on Patch, curiously enough, by some remote site south-south-west from the island's only town. Whatever. Shouldn't take more than a half hour to get there with this plan.

With the outside inspection outta the way, we make our way inside. Neon's already running through the pre-flights, so that should simplify things. I plop my bag in the corner and take the pilot's seat, strapping in quickly and donning my incoming migraine.

"Beacon Tower this is Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Have you received flight plan Hotel Papa Juliet Six Zero Zero Niner? Over."

**"Affirmative, Foxtrot,"** the same ass from last time says, sounding all too amused. **"We got a slot for you in four minutes and forty-five seconds. Does that work for you? Over."**

I look to Neon, who gives me a thumbs-up. "Affirmative. Be forewarned, Tower. I'm making plans after this. Get ready for creativity. Over." I click up the engine primers and let that work its magic.

**"Careful, Foxtrot,"** some new voice chimes in. **"We're sharing airspace. Over."**

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four to unidentified sphincter," I say. Neon snorts, chocking on air as his hand covers his mouth. "That you can read me says we share airspace. Thank you for paying attention. Over." I look over to Neon, who has his face buried in his hand as his whole body quakes. I swat him to wake him up, and he gives me the thumbs-up. "Do you copy, unidentified sphincter? Over."

**"Yeah, I got it."**

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four to unidentified sphincter. I seem to have missed part of your transmission. Could you repeat that. Over." Tower's chuckles are muffled, as if he's covering his mic. But I hear him all the same.

**"This is flagship Blue-Two. Keep the channel clear. That's an order."** Ooh. Sounds like that same sphincter is all tense. He'll never get anything done like this.

"Foxtrot to Beacon Tower. Requesting take-off based on received flight plan. And could you please tell General Ironwood's flagship Blue-Two this is Valean airspace and they have no authority to order me to not follow protocol on our frequency. Over."

**"Copy."** Tower clears his throat to mask the laughter all too obvious in his tone. **"Copy that, Foxtrot. Take-off according to received flight plan is a go. Over. And Blue-Two will mind both protocol and his tongue. Beacon Tower, over and out."**

I start all three engines and swat Neon, who's hunched over in his seat in helpless laughter.

"Foxtrot to Beacon Tower. How's the weather? Over." I clap up the bay door and lift off, already turning to my planned route.

**"I was wondering when you were gonna ask, Foxtrot."** Tower speaks nice and slow, like he's reading it off a screen. **"It's currently lovely weather. Partly cloudy. Nineteen degrees Celsius with a south-south-westerly wind at four kilometres an hour. We expect scattered showers throughout the day, with tonight's low expected to dip to a chilly seventeen degrees Celsius. Over." **In other words, he's not done with pissing off the little shit that needs to learn his place.

We're already just above Vale. It's the same view as before, and it's early with a westerly route planned. So we won't even need our shades.

"Foxtrot to Beacon Tower. What is the current brightness index? Over."

An annoyed groan from a familiar sphincter.

**_8-8_**

* * *

**"You know, Foxtrot. You've really grown on me. It's a shame you're landing. Over."**

The entire fifty-two minute flight. Beacon Tower and I have been going back and forth. The entire time. When we ran out of protocol questions, he asked about the view. And the idiots in the Atlesian Military could do nothing but gripe in silence as we chatted away. We're not military, after all. Let alone Atlesian.

"Likewise, Beacon Tower. But don't worry. We've got a few dozen flights planned over the coming…hours. Days. Maybe even weeks. Over." I flip on the keel cameras to confirm that there's nothing beneath me, and I ease my big ass right down onto the meadow at the base of this radio tower.

**"Looking forward to it, Foxtrot. And please radio in when you have your next flight plan delivered. Just for confirmation. Beacon Tower, over and out."**

I clip off my mic as the ship shudders on landing. Checking my aft cameras, I open the bay for us and go through the post-flights, carefully shutting everything down.

It takes almost no time at all before we're outside the Bullhead. Wenge and Tiff already have a perimeter set up, so Goodwitch walks out with us. Dunno where the client is. Don't much care. We're eight minutes early, so there isn't an issue yet.

"Team White will wait here," Goodwitch says. "I'll contact the client."

I'm still not sure about this whole 'client' thing. Aren't we supposed to hunt grimm and protect people and all that? Whatever.

I take out my scroll and check my messages. Sage sent me a picture of her with the caption, _One night and I already can't sleep without you_. Her eyes are red and the bags under them are quite impressive, all things considered. She knows I won't be texting her while I'm working. No matter how tempting it is, I'll need to focus as soon as the client arrives. Technically, I should be focusing now, but fuck. There's only a boarbatusk, and Neon's all too happy to stretch his legs after our flight, so he rushes off to deal with it himself.

Minutes drag on before some little shit saunters over into to the clearing we're in. His lab coat is stained with rust and grass, and smells like he hasn't bathed recently. Like this month kind of recent.

Lobster red skin, so he isn't used to the sun. Atlesian without fail, so he's either military or paramilitary. What the fuck is he doing on Patch?

Goodwitch escorts him over to us to start the mission's briefing. "Ah, uh. Right. I'm. Uh. Not very good at. Addressing the troops." The man couldn't possibly sound less sure of himself. Definitely paramilitary.

He rights his glasses, looking around nervously. He notices me—hope sparks up immediately.

"I'm an. Engineer. Usually work maintenance. But this is." He rights his glasses again, staring at me. "This is not my usual thing. We'll be. Setting up one forest tower and. Fixing two urban towers. Around Vale. So. We'll need. A pilot."

"We have a pilot," Goodwitch says. "Do you have everything you need in the container?"

"Ah. Uh. Yeah. About that. I'll need the pilot to. Transport a ten-metre shipping container. It has everything I need for the. First leg. After setting up a. Perimeter. I'll need the. Pilot." Again his eyes are on me. "To make a trip to. Atlas. To restock."

"Now, Mr," Goodwitch rights her glasses, "Uva. This was never mentioned. I'm starting to suspect our agreement was…modified after the fact."

"I. Uh. I have my orders." Uh huh. So that's why I suddenly had piloting on my curriculum.

I walk into the Bullhead and fish out the mission portfolio, and walk back outside with it in hand. Flipping it open, I check all the parameters known. Only to find the flight plan. In other words. This is off the books.

So how big a player is working the variables to corner me this time?

"My price just tripled," I say. Goodwitch glares at me. "No. Fuck you. You rope me into Atlesian bullshit and act surprised when Atlas has plans for me? You pay for the inconvenience. My price just tripled, as did the price of my team. And we'll take that upfront. Or I invert this flight plan and fly Team White home."

The man looks almost too pleased for words. He nods. "I'll. Uh. Have to call my boss?" And he walks off into the radio tower, obviously needing privacy.

I look to Tiff. She nods, fishing out her scroll and starts hammering away. I take out my scroll, knowing she's going to be texting me hints.

It's not a minute later that I'm sent a sound bite. I play it, setting it to play through the earphone so it's like I'm taking a call, just in case.

_"Yes, sir. I have the one you're looking for. Silver buzz cut, violet eyes, cyan tattoo behind her right ear." _The same voice, so this is the engineer. _"I can bring her to Atlas, but she wants twenty-two-thousand Lien for the inconvenience."_

_"That's acceptable."_ Jacques Schnee. Fucking figures. He never did like hearing no. No 'elite' does. _"Transferring now. Ensure she remains here for at least a week. Understood?"_

In other words, this is going to be a fucking migraine. No, fuck that. How do I spin this to my benefit? Hmm. I can't leave the team in a grimm-fest without some backup. And we'll need people we trust that can handle this. All the other teams will have their own missions.

This isn't the type of thing to include amateurs. So it's running solo. They'll no doubt offer me some fancy as fuck arrangements. But I have what I need to sleep on the Bullhead. Alright. I can handle that for a week.

The engineer comes back, with Lien cards in hand. He hands them all to Goodwitch, and she distributes them to us. I check mine, finding it has exactly twelve-thousand Lien on it. Good. Then this'll be worth the bullshit.

"Alright. Where's our first stop. I need to make our flight plan."

**_8-8_**

* * *

"I don't like it," Wenge says, annoyed. I shrug, unsure what else there is to say. I have our rucksacks here in the cockpit, the engineer is forbidden up here, and we have our own toilet here and a door that only operates from the inside. I also have a dozen minicams spread out all over the Bullhead, just in case. More I simply cannot do, not right now.

We have another five minutes before we arrive on the site on the south-eastern edge of vale. Not all the way out into Mountain Glenn. But close. And it looks it. The slums of Vale sprawl out beneath our feet. Graffiti covers the walls—some are gang signs, most touting some '_Faunus aren't animals_' type message. It's so far from civilization, that my scroll keeps complaining about bad reception.

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four to Vale Tower. We are approaching our destination. Requesting final approach. Over."

**"Copy that, Foxtrot."** Why are they also calling me that? Must have been listening in on that scene with that Alesian ass.

I slow us down to a hover. "Foxtrot to Vale Tower. Come again, over."

**"I repeat. You are a go for final approach. Affirmative on final approach, Foxtrot. Over."**

"Copy that. Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Over and out." I ease the Bullhead forward and lower the trailer down onto the radio tower, keeping the ship nice and steady, even in the sporadic southerly winds. I monitor the trailer in the keel cameras, keeping the little bitch as centred as possible on the big old 'H' landing pad.

"Touchdown," Neon confirms it. Without warning, the trailer's doors snap open and a dozen droids march out working quick to disconnect the winches, so I reel them right back in. With that handled, I ease us over to the side, and land in the parking lot, taking up like a dozen spaces. Fuck them, I'm expected.

"Alright. We'll handle this bit," Wenge says, patting my head while I'm busy with post-flights. "You get some sleep. Sounds like you're gonna need it."

I snort, hoping beyond hope that Wenge couldn't be more wrong.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The neighbourhood brats all come round to spy the Bullhead, asking us question after question. Faunus and Human alike, from younger than Tawny to our age—all familiar faces from around the way. They all wanna see our weapons, wanna brag about how they're definitely tougher than us. The whole shebang.

We're not doing much of anything other than keeping them well away from our perimeter. Sure, they're all smart enough to stay on the 'safe side' of the fence, given this place is locked down, but we'd have to be idiots to believe there's no way in.

"Tag," Neon says, balling his fist out of frustration. Yeah. He's from the slums himself. I walk over to the gate and take up my position. There's already a crowd, each shouting at me, asking my name and if they can see my weapon and what we're doing here. One even asks if I'm his daddy—I'm all for progress, but the little shit's making me feel like my boobs are so small they're invisible.

Or maybe it's the hair? But why don't they recognize me? Whatever. I pull my hoodie over my head, letting the scene light up in my seals. The kids are all rendered in the usual wireframe polygons, which overlaps with their heat signatures. It makes it super easy to tell which is Faunus—pretty much all of them. And telling their sex is simpler too, given the blood flows differently, even at this age.

The range isn't greatly improved, even with the larger micro-crystals. But the rendering is far keener—I can tell they have teeth now, and their tongues move in their mouths. The more I focus in on the wire-framing, the more details I can make out. Hmm, that's new.

Their clothes are all thick-ish. Not quite the paper thin of summer ware, but not nearly winter ware. What's more curious, is that I can actually see through their clothes, even with the iron-linked fencing between us. That's a bit invasive. And more than a little creepy. Still, it is what it is.

All the elder kids have a weapon on them. Most are pistols—which isn't surprising. I can't get a read on their aura levels; that wasn't the case before, either. But I can more easily see their elements. Most of them are muddy browns; earth—like Wenge. A few navy blues; water, like Professor Xiao Long. A yellow; electric, like Tiff—they do seem to be the rarer of the bunch, for some reason. Maybe it'll be interesting to crowd gaze during my down time, see what I can see.

No ices, though. At all. Figures. We're probably more common up north. Makes me wonder which slum Neon's from, though.

Either way. This upgrade is a success.

Another comes. A woman in her late thirties who chases the brat brigade off. She has a grimm mask in hidden in her jacket, and has a major overbite. Gerbil type, I think—or at the very least a rodent. Uh huh. White Fang either already know about us being here, or they will soon.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The sky is aflame, an explosion of pinks and oranges and reds. The end of our first day at this location. We're too far inside the city limits to be at risk of grimm attacks. We're here to ward off the other scum of Remnant—desperate guttersnipes.

And the night. The night is the domain of the slums' guttersnipes.

My shift draws to a close, so I make my way back into the Bullhead, into the cockpit, where I plop into the pilot's seat. I open my scroll, loading the app Tiff sent me. A dozen minicams with night vision, infrared, and ultraviolet sensors are set up around the Bullhead and the base of the radio tower. I flick my screen over and over, checking every triple feed to ensure they're all up and running.

We got lucky, I suppose. Tiff is the master of all things digital, so we can use this as the alpha test of our brain baby. Get the kinks out sooner rather than later.

Feed nine shows another scout checking us out. All by her lonesome. Same heat map as the woman from earlier—no doubt the same one.

The cockpit door opens. Wenge, Neon, and Tiff walk in and close the door behind them.

"Uva says he'll be done by tomorrow afternoon," Wenge says. "_If_. Nothing goes wrong tonight. So Goodwitch is busy locking the tower down."'

I nod, agreeing the precaution can't hurt. "Did he say where the next tower is yet?" I ask. "It'd be nice to have our flight plan ready before it's needed."

"It's," Wenge plops into the co-pilot's seat, "out in Forever Fall. We're gonna need to put in some serious work there, since he needs to build the tower and the security and all that. It's his current excuse why the trip to Atlas is needed. But it's still not being explained why we can't go while he's working here."

I check my scroll. The signal is perfect. Hmm. Until tomorrow, huh. That means he needs the signal to make a proper plan with that asshat Schnee. Adding this isn't being shipped in by freighter…? Well, to be fair. It's blatantly obvious Schnee just wants me in Atlas for a spell.

The only real question. Is why? What does he think he can pull in Atlas that he can't in Vale? And how likely is it that this Uva will come up with a reason I must go alone? Sure, I have a plan for that scenario. But how many people will argue that a two-pilot airship must be flown solo across an ocean? Let's find out. Shall we?

**_8-8_**

* * *

I rip open my breakfast MRE. The first thing I go for is the coffee and take out my canteen, clicking it to heat. Wenge and Neon go back and forth about something or other. I'll care after coffee.

Sip by sip, the worst of the morning sloughs off. I open my scroll, loading the feed. There've been a dozen scouts checking our perimeter during the night, but each spots the camera pointing straight at them, and they head out. The same ones, over and over. Continuously checking new angles. All Faunus, all wearing those tell-tale grimm masks.

What does the White Fang want with a radio tower?

I check my signal, finding it optimal. That's good. So we should be heading out today then. Peering over my scroll, Goodwitch is just having her breakfast; the engineer, too.

"Professor," I say, and show her the recordings. She rights her glasses, sipping her coffee as she watches the feeds over and over.

"They're the same ones," Goodwitch says. I nod, grateful I don't have to point it out. She takes out her XL scroll—not sure why she wants hers so big, but to each their own. She dials a number. "Yes. It's confirmed."

She hangs up without another word, and I certainly didn't hear whoever's on the other side of that call. Whatever. "I'm taking my tech with me," I say.

"It's quite alright," Uva says, perking up considerably. "I'll need to leave my assistants here to guard this location. I'll need you to plot a course to Atlas. We should be ready to leave just after lunch."

There it is. His in. Curious, that means we're all going to Atlas. I did not see that coming.

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Two_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Oh dear. It would seem we have...a situation brewing. How will this play out, I wonder.  
_**


	9. V2:C3—Blast from the past

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Two, Chapter Three—Blast from the past**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four to Vale Docks. Requesting final approach. Over." The industrial sector looms below. Warehouse after warehouse, factory after factory. But it's the cargo ships cruising up and down the river that set me ill at ease. So many places for unrepentant swine to hide out.

Still, the team agreed this is the better place, so I was outvoted. Long live democracy. Assholes.

**"Foxtrot. This is the Harbour Master. I haven't received a cargo manifesto. Over." **

"We are neither loading nor offloading cargo, Harbour Master. Just the passengers. Over."

**"Copy, Foxtrot. Proceed to loading zone Zulu Uniform Zero Five. Over."**

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four proceeding to loading zone Zulu Uniform Zero Five. Over and out." I input the zone and follow my flight-assistant's directions to an otherwise empty patch near a four storey building. There are already seven people exiting the building. Good, we won't have to call them.

Cameras click on, to confirm the ground is clear, and I touch down nice and easy. Switching to the aft cameras, I open the bay. Wenge and Tiff walk down the ramp, welcoming our guests and inviting them aboard. Wenge does a final look-see, just in case, and gives me a thumbs-up, walking back in. I click to clock the ramp.

"Foxtrot to Vale Tower. Requesting take-off."

**"Copy, Foxtrot. Take-off time is slotted in. Two minutes, fifteen second. Take vector Juliet Bravo Niner Eight Zero X-Ray. And mind the nevermore unkindness. Over."** Hmm, I thought they were called flocks?

I plug in the vector into my flight-assistant app. It takes us due east from here, well into Forever Fall and almost to Beacon. Bullhead still has over twelve-thousand rounds. Hmm. The cockpit door opens. I look over my shoulder, finding the fashionista and a glimpse of Sage. A hand on my other shoulder, I turn right into her lips pressing against my cheek.

"Roger, Vale Tower. Vector Juliet Bravo Niner Eight Zero X-Ray is plugged in. Do you need us to handle that unkindness? Over." I cover my mic and beckon to Sage with a single digit. She grins and leans in again, giving me a peck on the lips.

**"Affirmative, Foxtrot. It's why we're sending you that way. Shouldn't be more than a dozen of them. Over."**

"Copy that, Vale Tower. Tango-Foxtrot-Four, over and out." I click off the mic. "Neon?"

"Forty-five seconds," Neon says and clicks the PA on. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is co-pilot Eminence Neon speaking. Welcome aboard the non-stop flight to Atlas. Please fasten your seatbelts and ensure your tray is in its upright and locked position. We're expecting some minor turbulence and will not be entertaining any complaints about it. No matter how cute the complainer is."

When the countdown hits zero, I lift-off and turn us to the east. "How'd you manage to get time off so easy?" I ask.

Sage shakes her head, just barely not groaning in complaint. "Long story," she says.

"So your idiot siblings caused another scene and you got fired," I say. She doesn't deny it, but she doesn't confirm it either. Well, it'll be a long flight, so we have time.

I glide the forward thrust up to sixty percent, and click on the mic again. "Foxtrot to Beacon Tower. Do you have an aprox twenty on that unkindness? Over."

**"Affirmative, Foxtrot. Sending details to your flight-assistant now."** You don't have to sound so pleased, asshole. My scroll vibrates on its perch and twenty-three red bleeps with arrows materialize. **"Show our guests what Valean Huntsmen are capable of. Over."**

**"Tango-Foxtrot-Four."** Major Kiss-Ass is at it again, is he. **"This is General Ironwood. Cease and desist. That's an order. It's too much for a rookie pilot."**

"Copy that Beacon Tower." I glide the forward to a hundred and pull my goggles down. "Betties are marked and primed for a good rogering. Foxtrot, over and out."

I already see the first of them in the distance. I squeeze the top button and close my left eye. Aim three notches above current location. With nothing more than a tap of the middle button, a volley is fired. Checking the ammo, almost twenty rounds just got fired, with little more than a tap. Fuck this thing burns through rounds.

Neon whistles and clicks on his mic. "Foxtrot to General Ironwood," he says. "That was a headshot at two kilometres. Over."

Another group comes into my crosshairs. I aim and squeeze the middle button, one at a time, taking care to aim properly. One by one, they each drop out of the sky, dusting. And it only cost two-hundred shots. Seriously, the hell is wrong with this thing?

"Foxtrot to General Ironwood. Eight volleys, eight unlubed rogerings. Please confirm, over," Neon says with a shit-eating grin obvious in his tone. We finally hit the edge of Vale, entering Forever Fall. The rest of the unkindness is in an uproar, fluttering every which way as they scatter.

Unfortunately for them, the Bullhead can outpace them even at full tilt. I open fire. One after the next, aiming for where they're no doubt going to be. I don't even wait for the hit to land, before snapping my crosshairs to the next betty, dusting them before we even get within a kilometre range. Poor bastards. They were probably just out on a leisurely stroll.

I check my scroll, finding all the red dots missing, so I throttle back to sixty percent forward and stay on my current vector.

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four to Vale Tower. Unkindness of nevermores has been handled. Requesting permission to break current vector and switch to pre-plotted flight plan. Over."

**"Vale to Be…Beacon Tower. Please confirm. Oh. Please confirm, over."**

**"Beacon Tower to Atlas Tower. There isn't another nevermore on my radar. Repeat. All nevermores have been handled. Over. Nice shooting, Foxtrot. Your request to deviate from current vector is a go. Fly easy. Over and out."**

I click off my mic and veer to my left.

"Foxtrot to General Ironwood," Neon says, obviously wanting to stir up trouble. "I told you so. Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Over and out."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Before me, nothing but ocean. Scroll shows a perfect connection, given we travel essentially in a straight line from one CCT-Tower to the next, so I have my flight-assistant app tracking our current location. We're roughly four hours from Atlas, with the sun already setting.

"Tell me again why we're not travelling at full speed?" Sage asks? Sort of asks? Her voice did the spike in pitch at the end, but that isn't how questions are formulated.

"Standard procedure," I say. "Sixty percent is the most fuel efficient speed, so it's cheaper. And if we need a speed boost for whatever reason, and we're already at max speed, we're fucked. So this is cruising speed."

"And that translates to…?" Sage asks. She must be bored.

"That depends," I say. "It's not like land-based vehicles where it's just a straightforward thrust-equals-momentum calculation. It's like." Hmm. How do I explain this simply? I mean, it's not that Wenge is unintelligent, it's just that it's fucking complex. "Alright. So like there are three engines on the Bullhead. And they each need power while there's only one actual power source. I mean, sure there's the backup power, and there's two redundant power supplies in case things go sideways, but basically, we're looking at one power source where it all comes from. And that has to spread over three engines."

"Oh…kay?" Sage narrows her eyes.

"Trust me, it's important. So it's like this. During engine priming the generator loads like twenty percent to the batteries, to make sure you can at least land if—"

"You're not gonna start spouting equilibrium equations again, are you?" Neon asks. I glare to shut him up. He mostly just looks amused.

"Alright. Look, the batteries take some of the power while charging. So the first hour or two you run at sub-optimum speeds. Once the backups are all fully charged, there's less drain, so there is more power to put into thrust. Since we're not doing any manoeuvres, all but seven percent of that power is in forward thrust. So we're going faster than we were at the start, but I don't want to say six-hundred kilometres an hour, because that is true right now, but on average we've been going at just under four-hundred. And to add insult to injury, during the last leg, once we have confirmation we're going to land for sure, it's standard procedure to drain the battery, so either we cut back on fuel usage, or we go faster. Because it's bad for the batteries to remain at full charge. Sixty percent charge, yeah sure. But not full. So, it's possible to have this bird going at a thousand kilometres an hour, without accounting for tail wind, which also needs to be thrown into the calculation. Depending on cargo weight and weight distribution…and added drag if we're carrying a container by keel."

The screen flashes red. Grimm detected to our right. We're in the middle of the ocean, so we're looking at a lot of options. Nothing in sight, not yet.

"Fringe sighting," Neon says. "At our two-thirty. We're fine."

I flick down my goggles and look over to where he's talking about. A ginormous oval shadow lurks in the ocean, darker than everything around it. Leviathan for sure, but it's not heading our way, and at current speed, we should outpace it long before it reaches us, if it even notices us. Given it either isn't moving or is moving really slowly, we should be fine.

Goggles flick up, and I go back to checking our current progress. I do make an entry in the flight-assistant app about a leviathan sighting—since this one wasn't noted. The app asks for an estimated size. Fuck. Didn't estimate it.

I flick back down my goggles and check the range estimation—one-twenty kilometres away, at…four centimetres at the longest points. Too fucking huge to even contemplate, in other words.

Filling in the two measurements, the app asks if I want to see calculated size—I click no. Obviously. But I do highlight the estimated location.

The red flashes back to monochrome green a minute later.

"Good looking out, Em," I say. My co-pilot chuckles.

**_8-8_**

* * *

This place.

The city of Atlas. It's as cringey as I remember. Mountain ranges surrounding the plain the city's built on. Nothing but snow as far as the eye can see. A ginormous chunk of rock floating in what can only be assumed is the exhaust of all the factories from the industrial sector at the bottom of the long tethers that keep the city proper from floating away—because of course they went and overdid it with the levitation device, just as with pretty much everything else they do.

If it's not overdone, it's just not done right. That's the Atlas way.

"Atlas Tower," I say, already bracing myself for the bullshit coming my way, "this is Tango-Foxtrot-Four arriving on schedule according to flight plan Hotel Papa Juliet Six Zero One Two. Requesting final approach. Over."

**"Atlas Tower. Welcome to Atlas, Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Follow vector December Charlie Zero Four Seven and maintain current altitude. Over."** Short, gruff, annoyed. And with just enough attitude to let me know they'd rather not speak to me. Gee, so much has changed. I feel so fucking welcome here.

I key in the vector in my flight-assistant, find it's essentially a loop around the city. At three hundred metres altitude, that means they want me to see the 'grandeur' of their Frankenstein's monster of a city. "Copy, Atlas Tower. Vector December Charlie Zero Four Seven and maintaining altitude of three-hundred metres. Tango-Foxtrot- Four, over and out."

We fly around the hole in the ground, well above the industrial sector's tallest buildings. They're still mining in that stupid crater, trying to scrounge up every last gram of crystal and powder to be found down there. And of course, the air is so hot from all the fires burning to keep the lower city warm that I have to dial back the vertical thrust to five percent, and keep my hand on the throttle to adjust as needed. Backwards cunts that they are.

One lap around the city at three-hundred kilometres an hour. No word of where I'm to land.

Two laps around the city. Not a breath of chatter directed at me.

Three laps around the city. Six other airships have since radioed in and were immediately given approach vectors.

Either they're calling up every ass-backwards cock drool in the city, or they have no fucking idea what to do with me.

**"Atlas Tower to Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Your auto-pilot is not engaged. Over."** No shit. If Winchester taught me anything, it's that auto-pilot is your worst enemy. So of course I plugged that fucker out before landfall.

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four. That is correct. Over."

Half a lap later, and there's no more chatter aimed at me. Either they're hoping I'll engage the auto-pilot, or they're trying to gauge me as a pilot. Fucking idiots. It isn't protocol to have to engage the auto-pilot. Most do, of course, since it's easier. But if I engage that, people can hack it and make me fly wherever the fuck they want. Given this is Atlas tech and I'm in Atlas, that means I'd essentially sign over my ability to leave this place.

Fuck that.

Sixth lap around the city. We've been up here for a good hour and a half. Dozens of others were given approach vectors, so their auto-pilot wasn't hijacked. That means the pissing contest has long-since begun. They want me to hand over the reins.

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four to Atlas Tower. Still awaiting approach vector. Over."

They can't order me to engage auto-pilot, of course. That's breach of conduct. While they could arguably do it to their own pilots, I'm registered as Valean. So how will you assholes shoehorn me into bending over to accommodate you?

Eighth lap around the city. I see.

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four to Atlas Tower. You have one minute to issue approach vector or I enact protocol Zulu Alpha Zero Niner subsection Oscar Zero One. Over." Give me what I'm entitled to, or I use international aviation laws to leave your airspace without your blessing. Ball's in your court, assholes.

"Copy, Tango-Foxtrot-Four." He proceeds to read out a new vector, but before I punch it in, my scroll vibrates and a different vector loads in my app. It takes me to some private facility, as opposed to Atlas Airport. "Over."

"Negative, Atlas Tower." And just like that, eight Mantas start sneaking up behind me. I turn us around and kick the throttle into sixty percent reverse, to stay the course backwards. Top button presses, rotating my Gatling. "Tango-Foxtrot-Four to unidentified Atlas Manta airships. You will cease your unannounced and unwelcome escort or I assume hostile intent and open fire. I repeat. Stand down or I will engage. Over."

I flick down my goggles and close my left eye, aiming for the closest betty of the bunch.

My scroll vibrates again, the loaded vector is no doubt being remotely unloaded and deleted from its memory. The Mantas break off, but continue following at a distance, just over a kilometre behind me on the same vector. I thought so. They want to strong arm me, but they can't risk international hostilities openly bullying a Valean pilot and huntsman would invoke.

I release the top button and turn us right back around. "Tango-Foxtrot-Four to Atlas Tower. Repeat approach vectors. And keep your military hackers the fuck out of my scroll. Over."

A subdued asshole reads my approach vector, and when I key it in, it actually takes me to Atlas Airport. And people wonder why I'm such a cold bitch. Fucking cockroaches.

**_8-8_**

* * *

We enter a vast and otherwise empty hangar. No other ships are present, and there just so happens to be a colossal hangar door that gently slams shut behind us, as if to block us in. The second the Bullhead touches down, I phase out of my seat. "Em. Keep everyone on this ship. I'm going to deal with this."

Moon is still in her holster, so I grab Sun from my knapsack and stuff her into my sash. I also grab my rifle—she needs a name.

With my bit handled, I phase through the cockpit floor and make my way to the rapidly approach metric fuckton of Atlesian soldiers, all bearing green markers so I know these assholes are familiar with airship customs and laws. They are, after all, meant to man Atlesian military airships.

And yet, they brandish their rifles in a military-styled welcome mat with teeth. I unsheathe Sun and unholster Moon, ready to throw down.

A sole female not wearing the Atlas military armours and/or uniform saunters over. Silver hair, blue eyes, face as if set in stone, and arms crossed behind her back in that typical Atlesian elite fashion. A Schnee, no doubt in my mind. And oh look. She comes with white-armoured androids traipsing behind her, also armed and brandishing their rifles.

"How many of your pissants do you expect me to kill before you back the fuck off," I intone, glaring at the little shit.

"Welcome to Atlas, Ms DeWitt," military-Schnee says, not in the least perturbed by my acidic attitude. "I assure you, they are here to welcome you."

"Ah yeah. That makes sense," I say as I click off Moon's safety. "Because Valean pilots are always met with—"

"You are not just a Valean pilot, Ms DeWitt," military-Schnee says. She halts her approach at the five-metre mark, giving me ample personal space. "We both know that."

"Fuck off, Schnee," I say. "Order your men to holster their weapons. Now."

With little more than a glance from military-Schnee, the mooks all sling their rifles over their shoulders, as is standard procedure. "You will also holster your weapons," military-Schnee says, looking over her shoulder. Her droids follow orders, but don't break formation with her in the least. Not that they have to, but it'd be nice to be treated with something other than military 'respect'.

"Is this more agreeable, Ms DeWitt?" military-Schnee asks.

"Marginally," I say, still not engaging my safety or in any way standing down. "Now you will explain why your father pulled so many strings to get me in this city."

"You do understand this is a standard welcome for all high-ra—"

"The last time," I cut her off, "there were so many Altas rifles brandished in my presence, did not leave a welcoming aftertaste. So you'll, of course, understand my hostility towards two-bit trigger-happy fucks that remain near me and mine."

Military-Schnee's eyes narrow. "And yet, here you are."

"Order your men and androids out of this hangar," I say as I flick my wrist and spin Sun, rubbing the dial on her butt against my inner wrist. Her blade's edge glows a gorgeous cyan. "Or I start a body count. You have ten seconds to comply."

Military-Schnee peers past me, at the Bullhead. She nods and says, "Very well. Men. You're dismissed." She looks over her shoulder. "You will wait outside." And just like that, all her little toys walk the fuck away.

"Better," I say, but wait for the mooks to close the door behind them before I engage my safety. But Sun's blade still glows. "Explain why Atlas wants me in this city. And a second avoidance will not be tolerated."

"I should think it obvious, Ms DeWitt. We wish to recruit you as an Atlesian Specialist." She's honest, if nothing else. That is the most obvious reason for her being here.

"I am on a mission unrelated to Atlesian politics, and as such have no permissible wiggle room to deliberate on so enormous and generous an offer. Once time permits, I will consider the matter, and send word with all due haste." Means no, fuckhead.

"That's all I ask," military-Schnee says as she bows. Obviously she misses the signs. Whatever, that's on her. "Please. Allow me to extend," the door opens, Jacques Schnee enters, military-Schnee's eyes narrow, "an invitation to visit us at Atlas Academy for a guided tour."

So father and daughter are here with two very different agendas in mind. Noted. And, oh look, despot-Schnee comes with an old friend. Doctor Polendina. What a terrible surprise.

Military-Schnee glares at her father and the good doctor. Dr Polendina glares at the Schnee duo. And of course despot-Schnee looks too serene for words, having finally roped me into returning to Atlas.

"Did I come at a bad time?" I ask, feigning concern. I was only circling Atlas for the last two fucking hours. You'd think that enough time for three seemingly interconnected branches of Atlesian society to not get their signals crossed.

"Ivory, my dear. Lovely to see you," despot-Schnee says with arms held wide, not seeming to notice that I click off Moon's safety. "Back in Atlas at long last. How was your flight?"

"Ms DeWitt," Polendina says, bowing to me. "Please accept my belated sympathies for your tragic—"

I pull Moon's trigger, firing three rounds into the concrete beside my foot. "Do I have your attention?" I ask, murder all but assured from the daggers I glare at them. The Bullhead's ramp lowers and Professor Goodwitch saunters out, riding prong at the ready. "I was asked here by my current client. Not for any of you ass-backwards cunts. So unless you want me to shoot you where you—"

"Ivory. Stand down. Now," Goodwitch barks out.

"Oh, sure. I'm obviously going to be taken seriously in this crowd," I say, my words dripping with sarcasm. "Hey professor, I have a bridge I'd love to sell you."

"Ms Schnee. Mr Schnee. Dr Polendina," Goodwitch says, her shoulders tense. Instead of worrying with my usual sass, Goodwitch puts herself between me and the Atlesian asshat committee. "If there is a reason you three are here, I would hear it."

"Now, Professor Goodwitch. Surely you—"

Yeah, I am not listening to despot-Schnee's obvious silver-tongued lies. I turn on a dime and walk right the fuck back into the Bullhead, leaving Goodwitch to sort out the mess she agreed to landing me in. Maybe now she and Ozpin will understand my stance better.

Doubtful, but hope springs eternal, as they say.

**_8-8_**

* * *

My scroll clicks open and the minicam app loads. The five feeds from the other side of the hangar door, and the twelve I have around the Bullhead, show basically what I expected to find. The Atlesian soldiers stationed outside the hangar are just changing shifts, while in here, there are only ours to be found, minus the asshole engineer that is out doing whatever the fuck he intends to do, with Em and Tiff going with him—since we are technically still supposed to be guarding him.

I spoon up my meagre meal passed my lips, doing all I can to not dwell on the things I cannot change.

"I think I deserve an explanation, Ivory," Goodwitch says, setting her empty MRE container aside.

"Polendina, my mother's superior, wants to recruit me to continue her work," I say as I toss my spoon into the disposable bowl. The container is tossed back into the MRE box and set aside. "The Atlesian specialist wants to recruit me. Schnee, head of SDC. Wants me to marry his son, and he's the one that strong-armed the engineer to get me here. And you walked right into it. So, professor, you are the reason we're here."

"And the reason you didn't tell me this before?" Goodwitch asks, her gaze fixed on my face.

"Tell you what, professor?" I ask, honestly curious. "That Schnee is one of at least twenty contenders vying to marry me into his family? That Atlas wants their punching bag back so they can carry on treating me like shit? That what little you saw today is the modus operandi I've long grown tired of? What didn't I tell you?"

"Why did they have a red carpet rolled out for you?"

"Oh my fucking gods. Are you drunk?" I ask. "They make me circle the city for hours, waiting for me to engage auto-pilot so they can hack it. They hack my scroll, giving me directions to where I can only assume is Schnee's manor. They show up here with fifty-plus armed soldiers, just like the day they…"

My throat constricts along with my chest. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to cry about this. Tears won't give me everything this backwater pissing pot stole from me.

"Ivory, please," Goodwitch says. Her tone is so gentle, so soothing. Like she wants me to see she's on my side. "I'm trying to understand. How can I hope to take unknowns into account when dealing with this in the future?"

"I'm entirely too sober to entertain the notion. Drop it."

"Please," Goodwitch tries again. "I just want…"

I jump to my feet, slip my jackboot under Sun and kick her up.

"At least tell me why you wanted the Bruins here." Ah yes, because I'm obviously going to bare my soul for your perusal.

I walk the fuck over to a nice, empty patch of hangar and jerk my hoodie up so I can block out the world while still keeping a keen eye on everything that moves.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Twelve-thousand Lien. You're being paid handsomely to not go crazy. Twelve-thousand Lien. You're being paid well to not kill people. Twelve-thousand Lien.

"Ivory. Are you listening to me?" Goodwitch asks.

Twelve-thousand Lien. Twelve-thousand Lien.

"Hey," Sage says. Arms snake around my middle and the scent of lotus oil fills my lungs. I push her back, eyes fluttering open at long last, only to find the same scene I've been struggling mightily to ignore. Mr Bruin and Dr Polendina are quietly discussing something over to one side. From the sombre air hanging over them, I don't doubt they're talking about the factors that got me to this utterly fucked state of being. But it's how Wenge and Eminence and Tiff are looking all excited, talking about which bar they're gonna hit, which stores they wanna check out—obviously ready to hit the city scene.

"Yes, professor?" I ask.

Goodwitch stares. No emotion flickers across her face, no thought races through her eyes. Nothing. Just staring at me. "The rest of your team have decided they're heading into the city. Will you be joining them?"

Tawny lets loose a joyous squeal and legs it from her mum to her dad, and she jumps up into his eagerly awaiting arms as he scoops her up. She begs and pleads to go with Wenge. Mr Bruin looks to me, his gaze hollow as he nods and says she can. Of course no one ever listens to me. Who cares about how well-founded my suspicions are. I'm paranoid. I see monsters lurking in every shadow. Ergo, they choose whatever they damn well please.

"No, professor," I say.

"Very well," Goodwitch says. "Then I'll leave guarding the Bullhead to you. I have a meeting with to attend."

I nod, turn-heel, and carefully measure my steps as I walk up the Bullhead's ramp and into her bay, phasing through the cockpit door, and collapse into the pilot's seat. Scroll stabs onto the stand and the minicam app loads, showing the feed as everyone heads out into the city to have a grand old fucking time.

A knock at the door. "Ivory?" Sage's muffled voice pierces me clean through.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Click.

Click.

Click.

One by one, round after round, I click ammo into Moon's magazines. My gaze flickers back to my scroll after each click, back to the live feeds of the Atlesian soldiers stationed just outside the hangar door.

"Will you please talk to me?" Sage all but begs.

"Talk about what?"

Click.

The next watch shows up. They go through their standard chit-chat, and the now off-duty assholes saunter off into the sunset like nothing in the world could possibly go wrong.

Click.

Click.

"Why did you invite me to come?" Sage asks. "You didn't expect a yes."

"I cannot control the actions or reactions of others. Only what I choose to say, what I choose to do," I recite my mantra in a thorough monotone.

"Then why did you invite me?" she presses.

"Because Atlas is less dangerous than Vale," I say, as I click the last round of this magazine. I mark it with a red sticker, and stow it in my hip pouch for safekeeping, trading it for another reg-mag.

One by one, I click out the rounds, emptying the magazine into my box of reg-ammo in my lap. The last reg-round drops into the cardboard box, and I carefully, methodically click round after round of electric-dust rounds into the magazine.

It's only a matter of time before the first shots are fired. Only this time will be very different. This time I'm strong enough to keep my family safe.

I will keep my family safe. I have to.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Every magazine I own is loaded with dust-rounds. My grenade-mags have flashbangs and ice-shrapnel explosives locked and loaded. I've had a quiet lunch with Sage, carefully watching my scroll, monitoring those shifty packrats standing guard outside—'protecting' me.

"You really need to talk about it," Sage says. I've lost track of the people that pelted that same line at me.

"Talk about what?" I ask, curious which angle this one will take.

"What happened that night?" Sage asks. I stab the needle through the fabric of what will become my gloves, annoyed that it always comes back to that. "Mrs Bruin said you never talk about it. To anyone. Not even when you were cri…uh, bedridden."

And the reason I'll talk about it to you is…? "What is there to say?" I ask instead and stab the needle through the material once again. "Or did you feel like talking about your abandonment issues?"

Sage bristles, glaring at her hands as she grabs and turns Em's steering. "That's not fair," she says.

"So I should to talk about my trauma," I say and make one last stitch before looping the thread back through and tying it nice and tight. I cut the thread with my wire cutter, before adding, "But you don't have to. Right?"

Glove gets inverted, so its insides are inside and its outsides are outside. My scroll grabs my attention. Wenge and the others are coming back. All in one piece.

"What if I want to go into the city?" Sage asks.

"I didn't stop the Bruins." Wenge makes some small talk with the soldiers, continually throwing knowing smiles to the cameras, as if he knows I'm checking on him.

Sage reaches over. Her hand cups my cheek and gently nudges me to look at her. To look to her as she asks, "What if I want you to come with me?"

"There's nothing this city has that I want," I say.

"Maybe." Her eyes smile, the corners of her mouth curl upwards as if she understands what I'm not saying. "I want something. Come with me."

"I…"

Sage stands and pulls up my armrests and tosses my sewing kit atop my rucksack. She straddles my lap.

My scroll blinks and beeps. I push Sage aside, getting an eyeful of someone coming from dead ahead.

"Fuck." I phase through the floorboard and drop onto the hangar's concrete. The movement up ahead freezes, the person no doubt thinks they're so fucking hidden, masked in the hangar's dark corner.

Hoodie pulls up over my head and I stroll towards where the little shit will be. I slip Moon out of her holster, disengage the safety, and snap back her slider to pop one into the barrel. Aura focuses, wrapping around me like an old friend.

The boxes in the corner come into view, as do the listening devices within. Fucking typical. Atlesian 'privacy' at its gods-damned best.

"Wenge!" Sage calls out the second the Bullhead's ramp starts lowering. "She's going after someone! Over in the corner by the boxes!"

And my little cornered guttersnipe turns heel. I phase through the box and grab her belt, jerking her back so hard she slams into the boxes and knocks them over. The little shit lets loose a frightened shriek the scent of urine already escaping her.

"Aw, what's the matter?" I ask as I fling her ass-first over my shoulder and out into the open. The rest of Team WITE come running, but I don't need them for this. The arrogant little fuck takes a nasty tumble, but is on her hands and feet soon enough. "Did I scare you, little girl?"

The supposed assassin sneers at me as she reaches for the dagger at her side.

"Touch that blade, and I open fire," I say, aiming Moon for right between her eyes.

"Ive!" Wenge comes running and puts himself between me and the little fuckwit, with his back to me. "The hell gave you permission to engage without me?"

"Tawny did," I say.

His shoulders tense; a loud, sharp inhale of breath. "Touché," he concedes.

"What the hell," Tiff calls out. She no doubt is over by the boxes, finding all the goodies Atlas put in there just for us. Another 'training mission gone wrong', no doubt. "What kinda assassin brings this much spy gear? Jeez, she could listen to us taking a shit."

"The proper kind," the guttersnipe says. "And unless you let me go, my employer will have your heads!"

"Huh," Tiff says, her tone flat. "So it was here all along. I did not know that. What do you think, Ive? Atlas?"

"Duh," I intone. Tiff nods and takes out her scroll. Good luck with that shit. I walk around Wenge, right up to the 'assassin', and, "Good night." I ram my jackboot in her face knocking her out cold.

"Hey," Wenge says, pulling my hoodie back. "New glove."

"I will fucking shoot you."

And oh look. The mooks are in here en masse, looking for the assassin that '_so didn't slip by them_'.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Military-Schnee and Dr Piss-ass take turns assuring me that they have nothing to do with the three fucking tons of surveillance gear that 'just so happen' to be in the same hangar as I was ordered to land in.

Uh huh.

Goodwitch verbally rips the pair of them a new asshole, but really, this will change nothing. They're so busy swearing on all that is holy that this'll never happen again that I doubt they hear a word she's even saying—and that completely discounts they really mean they'll be twice as sneaky so they aren't caught next time.

"You don't seem very surprised," Em says. And suddenly the whole hangar is deathly silent. All eyes are on me, subtly or otherwise.

None of this is surprising. Guttersnipe breaking in when she thinks no one'll be here to steal any food she can. Atlas turning what should have been a simple pick up into a week of full on exercise in ass-kissing and platitudes. I'm just waiting for the soldiers to break in here and start shooting up the place. It's the only thing missing.

"Should I be?" I ask.

"Ivory," Mr Bruin gets on my case. "Enough."

My eyes narrow. You know what? Fine. Fuck it. If Ivory is once again the biggest bitch in the room when these two are both so fucking clearly lying their asses off about how Atlesian tech was stowed in an Atlesian fucking hangar to spy on non-citizens. Then there's nothing I can add to any of this.

I just walk the fuck off, leaving them to mop up after themselves.

"Ivory!" Goodwitch gets on my fucking case for it.

"FUCK YOU!" I snap. "Every fucking word coming out of my mouth pisses someone off, so why the hell do I bother opening it? Not that not opening my fucking mouth is any better."

"Ivory, I said enough." I motion to Mr Bruin, at another case in fucking point. I could say have a nice day and I'd still get someone on my ass about it.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Our shipment is _mysteriously_ ready the very next fucking day. Customs is too fucking busy walking on eggshells to say more than have a nice flight, and Uva is too fucking scared I'll dump his ass in the ocean to even consider denying me when I order him to open the container so I can inspect it myself.

Surprisingly, my departure vector is radioed to me the second I request take-off. It's almost as if they understand I'm a hair's breadth from burning this fucking rock down. Or they want me to get myself killed by attracting grimm en route back to Vale.

Either way, fuck them.

Screen flashes red.

_WARNING! Wrath is above nominal levels! Calm yourself immediately!_

Deep breaths, Ivory. Deep breaths. You'll be allowed to go to town on ass-backwards fuckwits soon enough. And guilt-free. Hmm. I like that more than I should.

The screen blinks back to monochrome green.

"Should I be worried?" Em asks.

"No," I say. It's not like anyone fucking listens to me anyway.

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Three_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Pst. _**

**_Pssssst. _**

**_Hey, for those of you who read my author's notes down here.  
_**

**_I've a secret to tell you._**

**_..._**

**_..._**

**_Ivory's not exactly in a good mood. Shhh! Don't tell the others. _**


	10. V2:C4—Fury and Calm

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Two, Chapter Four—Fury and Calm**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

Forever Fall. Trees as far as the eye can see. Even at a kilometre up, there is only green in view. Fuck am I glad I dropped everyone off back at the port, because this place is crawling with grimm in the best of times.

"That glade should work," the engineer says, pointing at some random spot.

"Glade means grimm battle," I say. "It makes more sense—"

"That's why I hired you."

The screen flashes red.

_WARNING! Wrath is above nominal level! Calm down immediately!_

"You. Might wanna rethink that statement," Em says, sounding amused.

"Think you can land this thing?" I ask just as the screen flashes with a grimm warning. Instead of a single arrow pointing to the sole grimm spotted, there's a collection of arrows so dense, there's no longer a beginning or an end.

"My pilot's license seems to think so," Em says. He holds out his balled fist. "Take Wenge and Tiff with you?"

I bump his fist and phase out of my seat. Sun gets stuffed into my sash, my rifle gets slung over my shoulder, and I phase right through the kiss-ass engineer. Into the bay, I tread. Wenge and Tiff take one look at me and they rush for their weapons, knowing shit is about to go down.

**"Guys,"** Em announces over the PA, **"Goodwitch wants that glade cleared in five minutes or less. So Ive. Don't keep it in. Be a beacon for those little shits."** The bay door lowers, opening up to the skyline and the trees well over a kilometre below.

I don't ask. I jump.

Forever Fall, huh. Maybe the person that found this place jumped out of an airship too? Wind rushes past, the air so cold it almost feels like home.

Rifle snaps to my shoulder and I rain grenades down on the little shits I know are there. Over and over and over, even as I fall, I rain down my ice shrapnel grenades, turning the forest into a winter wonderland.

But my explosions have nothing on Wenge's. He fires a single shot and stops dead in his free-fall, suddenly a hundred metres above me. Tiff wields her pogo and fires off round after round to slow her descent as well. Slower than Wenge, but steady all the same. I don't bother with any of that pussy shit.

No, I spot a nevermore just taking flight, and I aim for that little shit as I wrap my aura around me tighter than a cloak during a snow storm. I spin and land on the fucker's skull feet-first, driving it down onto a tree like a shish kebab and springboard off it before it dusts.

I hit the ground in a roll and right in the middle of the grimm shits looking for the source of the sheer fury leaking out of me. Growling starts quickly, but the temperature plummets around us. Between my ice grenades and Wenge 'hopping' around up there and firing his baseball bat? Of course he decided to use his ice buck-shots, kicking up a hail storm that makes Mantle look tame by comparison.

My breath comes out as smoke, my skin tingles and itches. Oh fuck yeah.

I aim for the nearest little shit and squeeze the trigger. An ice shot rockets the ursa major back, its head encased in ice. Its little buddies slowly start to freeze from the icy environ we're creating.

Perfect. Now to lure the rest of them into our slice of icy hell. Images flash across the haunted stage of my mind.

_Mum begs me to run even as she drags herself from the pool of her own blood, her once smiling eyes swimming with fear. Dad lies face down on his desk, his usual bone white paperwork bathed merlot, the back of his head exploded and chunks of his once pristine white hair decorate his bookshelves, the window he hated having open sports a hole roughly the same size as his skull. _

_I'm running. Running down the all too familiar corridor. Tears in my eyes, chest burning, fear gripping my throat so tight I can't breathe. A sound, muted. Just, 'psh'. Pain stabs my lower back. I drop, unable to feel my legs. They're all around me. Those Atlesian helmets that cover everything but their mouths, those rifles all trained on me. _

Wrath fills me, its icy flames burning blindingly bright. The growling around me intensifies. Trees are uprooted as every grimm for kilometres in every direction hone in on me and come stampeding my way.

My eyes flutter open. A grimm's claw is mere centimetres from my face, frozen in place.

"Pussies never could stand a little chill," I say. Rifle slings over my shoulder, already collapsed. Sun unsheathes. With a flick of the wrist, her edge glows cyan, and I lash every grimm-cicle into more manageable chunks.

The air around me is thick with spent dust, the ground littered with the remnants of my enemies. I pull my hoodie over my head, using the fabric to dry my tears before they freeze.

"Training mission gone wrong." I snort derisively, and turn to the glade Eminence should be heading for. Sleet crunches under jackboots as I march along. You don't start a fire to cover the evidence of a training mission.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The sun is just about setting when the last of the perimeter's fencing goes up. It's just phase one, but better do this in phases than have gaping holes in our defences in the dark.

AK-130s patrol the small enclosure, black armours and rifles glowing their usual hellish red. The construction droids march themselves right back into the shipping container to recharge for the night. Once the container's doors clap shut behind them, I jump up onto their prison, slap the last two of my minicams on the corners and phase through the Bullhead's hull into the bay.

Dozens of screens and portable consoles lay haphazardly strewn about, with the engineer gorging on a bag of some sort of chips. He's smart enough to have the monitors magnetically stuck to the hull, so no one questions what he's looking at—especially since he's seen us in action. Or maybe it was seeing three of us jump out of an airship without parachutes and we lived to tell the tale?

Whatever.

I walk past and phase through the cockpit door. Goodwitch sits in the co-pilot's seat, staring at her scroll as she clicks away at it. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.

The others are out gathering firewood and patrolling outside the perimeter, so there's no doubt in my mind she planned to get me alone. A-fucking-gain.

Plopping into the pilot's seat, I fish out my scroll and check my messages.

_Mrs Bruin: "Thank you so much for taking us up north. It was so nice to see everyone again. And Tawny finally got to meet her godmother. Everyone was disappointed you didn't join us, but no one was surprised. Call me the second your mission's over. I have great news."_

"You should, you know. Talk about it. It isn't healthy to keep it bottled up," Goodwitch presses.

_Sage: "Just wanted to say hi. And to thank you. Signal called. Still can't believe they have class for 18+. My entrance exam is in two weeks. Fingers crossed."_

Sigh. Part of me wants to beg her not to get into Signal. But that just isn't my call to make.

"Why did you want to be a huntress?" Goodwitch asks, obviously trying to get something out of me other than silence.

"Because I enjoy people asking more than they offer," I intone. If she misses the sarcasm, it's on her.

"In other words. You're accustomed to what you went through in Atlas, and you expect everyone to act according to your experience. You won't open up, because you think my sole goal is to use you. And, if I'm reading you correctly, you want to be a huntress because you were tired of being what you perceive as weak. Would you say that is a succinct interpretation of the situation?"

"If I wanted everything to be about me," I say with just enough attitude to show I don't want to talk about it, "I would have stayed in Atlas." I stab my opened scroll onto the dash and load the minicam app.

"You're a year older than your classmates. Why is that?"

I roll my eyes and start the recording feature, setting alarms on the perimeter and cockpit door cams.

"Did you purposely retake your first year in Signal?"

I reach over and grab my knapsack, dragging it to the foot of my chair. Sewing kit is fished out. I have my first glove. Just need the second, and I need to figure out how to attach the gravity crystal to it. Maybe figure out a way to attach multiple crystals. It would be nice if I could 'attract' all my weapons. But I guess starting with Moon is good enough for now.

"That's a no. So your injury was worse than Atlas Academy made it out to be."

At some point she'll run out of steam. They all do, eventually. Titanium threading phases through the eye, and needle stabs through the material, following the pattern drawn on with simple white chalk to contrast the ebony background.

"And given how you reacted to James, he knows more than he's admitting to."

Maybe I should tattoo interfacing seals onto the backs of my hands. Hmm. Adding more interfaces might be pushing my luck. Maybe interlocking it with my hoodie makes more sense.

"What else aren't you telling me, Ivory?"

"I didn't realise we were so close, professor," I intone. "Next thing you know, we're be trading battle scar stories and braiding each other's hair."

"Says the one that hoped I was seducing her," Goodwitch snipes. That worked out splendidly, if memory serves.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Honey, I'm home," Wenge says as I open the cockpit door. I roll my eyes and make the final stiches of my glove. Once satisfied, I cut the thread and invert my new glove to try it on. "Hey, professor. Uva was looking for you. Said something about needing a hand to recalibrate something?"

"It can wait," Goodwitch says and closes the door. "Why did you want to become a huntsman?"

"Huh? Well, that's," Wenge says. I roll my eyes, knowing Wenge is rubbing the back of his neck, trying to be honest while still respecting my privacy. One of the few people on the fucking planet that mostly respects my desire to leave the past behind me. "Ive wanted in, and we were. Kinda joined at the hip, you know?"

"Interesting," Goodwitch says and stands. She walks out without another word, no doubt intent on 'not' interrogating Tiff and Em.

"Intel gathering, huh," Wenge says as he plops into the co-pilot's seat. "Anyway. Got the confirmation. We're slotted in for the tournament. No word yet which teams we're competing against."

I slip on both gloves, balling and relaxing my hands to check if they aren't too tight or anything. They sure bring back a lot of memories. Standard issue Atlas Military Primary school gloves, missing only the metal back.

"Do you ever miss it?" Wenge asks, eyeing my gloves. He no doubt recognizes the design. "I mean. You even went with the standard weapons setup. Sword, rifle, pistol."

"Sometimes," I say, my tone wistful. "It was nice not being the only silverette."

"Heh. I'll bet. Now you only have Schnee," he says. "And I'm sure that's everything you don't want."

I snort. My hands wrap around the steering, trying to get a feel for it. There's more than enough traction to not worry about slippage during dogfights.

"Hey, you remember Mrs Katt?"

"She still runs that fish stall at the market?" I ask, chuckling. What is it with cats and fish? I mean, seriously.

"Yup. Had a special on salmon while we were there. Said her daughter's entering the tournament. What was her name again? Cute girl, but always so catty."

"Neon," I say. "Should be in her second year."

"Riiiiight. You two were inseparable. And her brother was always such a geek. I swear, if he were gay…?"

I snort, laughter catching me by surprise. "I figured you were into him."

"What's not to like?" He throws me a rakish grin. "She was asking about you."

"Mrs Katt? I'm amazed she didn't storm the hangar demanding to see me."

"Yukie Aoyama."

My mouth is suddenly dry.

"She works part time in a dust shop. You remember the one down by the convenience store? The one near the library."

I nod, my grip on the steering tightening.

"Her sister wouldn't shut up about you. I always did…" I sigh, feeling his gaze on me. "Sorry."

"Mm." I nod. "Let's just. Focus on this."

**_8-8_**

* * *

I jerk awake to the sound of alarms wailing. My scroll already has the feed loaded for me, perched on the dash. Grimm. Dozens of them. The droids won't be able to hold them off.

Banging on the cockpit door. "Ive! Got a situation!" Eminence bellows. "Gear up!"

I grab my scroll, Sun and, my rifle on my way out the door, and follow Em out the Bullhead. The fencing is already overturned and the droids are lighting up the night with those built-in rifles firing almost nonstop at the ursai.

This makes no sense. Grimm will test the boundaries of anything, but they shouldn't spread out this quickly. A worry for later.

"I'll snipe, you back Wenge and Tiff." Em doesn't miss a beat, jumping down to deal with what he can. He never did prefer his rifle.

I grab my rifle, flick the trigger forward, and blaze off ice-rounds into the little shits down there. Two of them try to pounce a droid at once—I snipe one mid-air, dusting it. The other gets ganged up on by the droids, trying to save their comrade. My team isn't down there. So they must be on the other side. Still, best make sure the perimeter is secure before I back them up.

I'm quick to empty my mag in the little fucks, and vault up atop the Bullhead, rushing to find my team as I reload.

A squawk from overhead. Griffons circle above, about twenty metres up, clearly ready to dive down. Dozens of them. No…those tails are more serpentine. Sphinx. But they aren't from around here. Fuck it, deal with that later.

I fire up an ice grenade in the middle of a group of them and snipe it. The explosion sends them all scattering, but I got five of their wings, so they come crashing down. Think. Sphinx have harder armour than griffons. Hmm. Not wasting hard-light rounds on them, but if there are this many now, my team will need backup.

I click out my ice-mag and trade it for a hard-light. Another sphinx comes diving for me, so I fire off the last ice-round right into its face, and fire an armour piercing round right behind it. It drops, no doubt dead.

Snapping my focus to the frozen ones. No point in risking them brea—

The first one shatters the ice on its wing. I aim for that one and fire, piercing its skull and killing. I snipe off its little buddies quickly as well, but this is quickly becoming some serious bullshit!

I phase through the Bullhead's hull, dropping into the cockpit and frantically start priming the engines. Lights flicker to life, soft whirring fills my world. I see them. Wenge, Tiff, Em. They're engaging a death stalker. This isn't some random encounter. This is orchestrated.

Want to fuck with my team?

I don't waste time booting my systems or any of that bullshit. I just need to get in the air, and I need to shoot shit. So the second the engines are purring, I lift off, hauling the container still lodged under my ass. Fuck!

No time.

I click on my headset and flick down my goggles. Thank fuck this thing has limited night-vision—not the best I've worked with, but good enough to not shoot my team.

Tiff makes a wild dash for the deathstalker. Always with the suicidal tendencies. The stinger lashes out at her. If she doesn't dodge, she's fucked, and she's right in the way of a headshot. Wenge dashes ahead, tackling her and dropping them under the attack.

I squeeze and hold the top button and quickly tap the third. A single shot pierces the deathstalker clean through, dusting it. I snap my head to one side, looking for the other sphinxes. One is just swooping in for Em. No clear shot, so I aim for its chest—and make sure my people aren't on the other side of it.

It drops outta the sky, but doesn't dust. Em pounces, ramming his daggers in its eyes, dusting it. Wenge and Tiff are back on their feet, so they're good. The sphinxes mark me as the bigger threat, so they start pelting their fire-thingies at me. I weave to one side and pull up, snapping my crosshairs to one of them—nothing behind it, good.

I snipe, dusting it. The sphinxes scatter. Good. That means you're no longer in 'friendly fire' territory, bitches.

Snapping my crosshairs to the furthest one. I take a second to check it's trajectory, and snipe it. Less than a hundred metres. Of course it's a fucking headshot.

One by one, I line the bitches up and knock them down, keeping their attention off my team. My scroll vibrates. I fish it out and stab it onto the dash, answering the call. "Occupied," I say.

_"Ive,"_ Wenge says. _"Stop playing with your food. We've got beowulves inbound. Hundreds of them."_

"Hey, fuck you. I'm working without coffee." I snipe off another winged betty. Looking around, I don't spot any more. "You see any more Sphinxes?"

_"No. South. Fuck them up."_

I turn left.

_"Your other left. Didn't you boot your compass?"_

"Feed me, then bitch about it." I turn the other way. They're coming in through the ice that still hasn't melted. Ballsy bitches. I squeeze the middle button, tearing through them like paper-mâché.

_"Ten degrees down, four to that other left."_

Don't see anything there, but fuck it. I open fire on the spot he means.

_"Six degrees up, fifteen to your left."_

"Hey, Ivory," I say, opening fire on the spot he means. "So nice of you to save our asses down here. Gee, you're a swell team player. What would we do without you."

_"I'll compliment you after we survive this."_

I start booting up all my systems. "If you dare die on me, I will kill you myself." I see movement, so I snap off a shot right at it.

_"You know that makes no sense, don't you."_

"Fuck you. You want intelligent threats? Get me some fucking coffee. Asshole."

_"Em. Tiff. Anything?"_ There's murmuring I don't make out.

Screen flashes red. Grimm sighting. No shit. With the systems up, I boot up the infrared sensors. "Wait. Don't you have night vision and heightened smell or something?"

_"Jeez, blondie. You really do need coffee. Just con…"_

"Yeah. Big ass baddie dead ahead." Dunno what. Don't much care. I aim and I hold in the middle button for a few seconds, making sure to spray the area to share the love best I can. "Did I get 'em?"

I check my sensor, but I've got nothing. The red warning screen blinks back to monochrome green. My rounds are down to just under six-thousand, though. Fuck, this thing has a high fire-rate.

_"Em asked if you booted your systems."_

"Yeah. Picking up a whole lotta nothing. What you thinking? Land and start figuring shit out?"

**"Beacon Tower to unidentified Bullhead in Forever Fall. What is your situation? Over."** I flick up my goggles. Fuck, the mic was on the whole time. I guess I didn't care what the hell I clicked on.

"Foxtrot here. Grimm were just crawling up our ass. Needed the extra juice. So unless this comes with coffee, fuck protocol."

**"Oh, hey Foxtrot. Been hearing about you from day-shifts. Don't worry about it. Ain't nobody up at this time of night. You need backup? Over."**

"Sensors are coming up blank. I think we got 'em. Now I just need to fucking figure out how to land in near zero visibility."

**"This is what I live for, Foxtrot. You're in a Bullhead, so all your cameras have infrared and nightvision options. The button to the right of camera activation. If you click that up it's nightvision, middle is off, down is IR. Do you know your landing site's location? Over."**

"I swear to the gods, the second I find out who you are, I'm treating you to a night on the town."

**_8-8_**

* * *

The sun rises on our little campsite. None of us got any sleep, of course. Even the kiss-ass engineer stares at every moving twig and leaf as we survey the damages. The hole the construction droids dug out essentially collapsed, but that's an easy fix. None of the AK-130s were destroyed—one lost a limb, but that's about it. The fencing is all fucked, of course, but that was meant as a temp structure. And since I was flying with the container, none of the materials or construction droids got damaged.

All in all, not as fucked as I feared.

"One question," Tiff says and raises her hand to be counted. "Where were you, professor?"

"I was aboard, keeping an eye on everything," Goodwitch says. She puts her hand on her hip and smiles. "You all performed admirably."

I roll my eyes and upend my beloved coffee.

The engineer starts unthawing his britches, and Goodwitch goes with him so he'll not piss himself from a stiff breeze. So the four of us start looking around to find Sun. I still can't believe I drop her. I mean, it was in the heat of battle, and I was half-drunk on sleep. But still.

"Got her!" Em calls out. He picks up my beloved weapons, dusts her off, and clicks her back into sword form. He walks over, gently handing me sword.

My Sun. I rub my baby, carefully getting off all the dust I can. Definitely going to need to polish her properly, to apologize. I phase her, flicking her this way and that to dislodge what I can.

"Thanks," I say as I slide her into my sash to keep her near me.

"Team White," Goodwitch says, walking over. "Uva has the knights forming a perimeter again. We need to figure out what happened last night. That was too large a group for this to be coincidence. But no one's picked up much of anything in this forest by air."

Ah, fuck. Forever Fall is huge! Half the size of the city of Vale for fuck's sake.

"So here's what we're going to do. Ivory. You and Eminence will return to Beacon. You will refuel and stock up on ammo. You'll also make a preliminary report to Professor Ozpin. If he has any additional orders, relay them to me."

"Understood," I say and nod. I'm half-tempted to salute, but fuck that.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I press for Ozpin's office. I seem to be up there a lot these days, and I'm not even in trouble. Either way, whatever.

The door opens, and I stroll out. Ozpin and Ironwood are there. It takes considerable effort not to roll my eyes. I don't ask, I simply start my report, giving only the highlights of the mission thus far, along with Goodwitch's order to report in.

Ozpin sips his coffee, saying nothing throughout. Not about my report, not about my arms crossed behind my back, not about my assessment that sphinxes aren't native to Vale or even to the continent of Sanus.

When I fall silent, obviously at the end of my report, Ozpin only sips his coffee again.

"Am I to understand, Ms DeWitt," Ozpin says, his green eyes trained on me, "that you not only flew all the way to Atlas. But that you also managed to land that Bullhead with a twenty-metre shipping container, in the middle of the night while not fully cognizant?"

"Professor Goodwitch can confirm, if that's what you mean," I say, cocking an eyebrow. "Or are you saying I was licenced purely as a show of goodwill?"

"Ms DeWitt," Ironwood says. "There are pilots under my command as we speak that wouldn't brave trans-continental flights without the fleet. And there are certainly few and far between that are confident enough to attempt a night landing with low visibility."

"That's nice. Do you have orders for me or not?" Ironwood opens his mouth. "Professor Ozpin."

"I do," Ozpin says as he props his elbows up onto his desk and folds his hands to cover the lower half of his face. His poor mug is left forgotten—getting the rest it deserves. "I need Team White to scout Forever Fall for the source of this grimm attack. However, this isn't something you can do alone."

Sigh.

"General Ironwood," Ozpin continues, clearly ignoring my reaction, "has offered a detachment of pilots and soldiers to accompany you. They will be under your command. Not your team leader's, not Professor Goodwitch's. You, personally, will lead this search. And you will deal with the problem as you see fit, provided you do so…discreetly. Do I make myself clear, Ms DeWitt?"

"Crystal, sir."

"Good. James?"

"Ms DeWitt. You will have three dropships for accompaniment. Each contains ten of my men and twenty Aykaytwohundreds. As Professor Ozpin says, you will have full tactical command in this endeavour. And I'm sure you are well aware of the protocol for insubordination. Report any and everything to me personally."

I click my heels together and march right the fuck out. Trading one bullshit situation for another. Fucking-A.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I storm into the hangar, finding everything I wish was an illusion. Four Atlesian dropships are parked alongside the Bullhead, and thirty Atlesian soldiers stand at attention, as if presenting for inspection. They break down as would be expected. Three groups of ten—eight reds making up the brass, two greens for pilots and co-pilots.

Em gives me a look, too amused for words. Oh, they informed him alright.

I march over to Em, and the second I stop, the lot of Atlesian asses salute. All humans, all men, and all wearing the standard armaments.

"What's the plan, captain?" Em asks with a mischievous smirk. I'd smack you, but that'd only make matters worse.

Sigh. It's the Atlesian dick-measuring contest. I guess showing them that I've got the biggest dick here. "General Ironwood assigned you to me. Is that right?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" they answer as one.

"That means you do as I say, when I say it. Correct?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" they answer as one. This is going to be a running theme with these asses.

"Then we'll get right to it. Pilots and sergeants to me." Three greens and three reds march over to me in that overly formal fashion that shows they mean to make a proper first impression. "Cut that shit out. I plan on getting this done before I graduate."

They drop the formalities and jog over. Hopefully they've dropped them for good, but time will tell.

I fish out my scroll and load my flight-assistant app, flicking over to Forever Fall. "Our base of operations is set up here. As of oh-three-hundred hours this morning, we were overrun with grimm. Ursai, beowulves, sphinxes, deathstalkers, and one big one I didn't get a look at before feeding it lead. The beowulves and the big one came from this way," I point south, "so that's our best bet where the nest is. We're going to start with a preliminary aerial scan, see what we find. We need infrared scanners active at all times, since radar clearly isn't picking up the source. We engage from the air if possible. Keep eyes on all fronts. You find something, you radio it to me. If you don't trust the radio, you call me or Neon here. If we find something, Team White will be the first to investigate. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," the men say as one.

"No heroics. I don't plan on reporting so much as one casualty. And for fuck's sake. Keep all safeties engaged until I say otherwise. I don't need a bunch of trigger-happy yuppies on my six."

"Question, ma'am," one of the greens says. "What formation are we flying in?"

"It's a dragnet. We need to cover as much ground as we can without letting anything slip through the cracks. So side-by-side. No more than a hundred metres apart. That should maximize IR scanners, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," the same green says and nods.

"This is not a covert operation. So most transmissions will be on the open frequency. However. This is under the condition of there only being grimm in there. If there are people? We need to be discreet. Criminal Roman Torchwick is still at large. He might be connected, he might not be. The White Fang has recently upped its recruitment efforts. They might be connected, they might not be. If there are people involved and you spot them, call it in as a boarbatusk sighting."

Everyone nods.

"And let me be transparent about something. My best friend and team leader is a Faunus. If any of you make him uncomfortable, I will break you and report that the grimm got you. Clear?"

"Yes, ma'am." They nod. No one seems surprised or acts any way that stands out, so this shouldn't be a problem.

"Good." I click off my app and call Wenge. "Baby bear, put Goodwitch on."

**_8-8_**

* * *

"I still say it was cheap," Em says. He scans the forest beneath us, looking for any sign at all of activity. The grimm scanners have been quiet thus far even at their most sensitive setting, but it's only a matter of time before we spot something. "I mean, think about it. We flew to Atlas, spent two days on someone else's tab, and flew back. And all it cost us was a measly three-hundred Lien to refuel."

Three-hundred Lien the client should damn well have paid.

"And on top of that, those guys were so impressed with the now legendary Foxtrot they refilled our rounds for free. Come on, Ive. You gotta admit that's cool."

Noonday sun beats down on our Bullhead, on the woodlands below. That's got to be wreaking havoc on the infrared scanner, making it impossible to see anything but glowing leaves below. Maybe we should be doing this after dark, when the air and trees cool to allow for better temperature differential? Still, the grimm scanners should pick something up.

**"Green-Six to Foxtrot,"** one of the pilots radios in. **"IR's picking up a whole lot of leaves and treetops. Over."** I know that, smartass. My mic clicks on.

"Foxtrot to Green-Six. I'm aware. But if one of the grimm fires up an even hotter ball of flame. Do you think your infrared scanners will pick that up? Over."

Em chuckles beside me, but there are about a dozen other guffaws coming in over the radio.

**"Green-Six to Foxtrot. What are the odds of not getting a visual? Over."** Oh, so we do have a wiseass on our hands. Let the pissing match commence.

"Foxtrot to Green-Six. The visual will only come after it breaks through the treetops. If those treetops heat up before the fireball breaks through, it will give our pilots a fraction of a second more warning. And that could spell the difference between narrowly missing, and a direct hit. It is my simplistic understanding that every man and droid aboard the Atlesian Dropship Green-Six wishes to survive past today. As such, we will use every advantage Atlesian technology grants us. Please confirm soundness of my logic. Over." Go on, cock-nibbler. Take the bait. Talk shit about droids. See how that works out for you.

**"Green-Six to Foxtrot."** He sounds as cocky as the smug smirk obvious in his tone. **"Droids are not programmed with a desire to live. Over."**

"Foxtrot to Green-Six. At least they can be taught intelligent comebacks. Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Over and out."

I click off the mic as the airwaves flood with chuckles and snorts and a few familiar voices offering Green-Six water for that burn.

"Meh," Em says with a shrug. "You've done better."

**_8-8_**

* * *

We make a few passes over most of western, southern, and northern Forever Fall, and the sensors pick up absolutely nothing. So around two, I order everyone back to the campsite. We land and everyone gets down to a late lunch, but something feels off.

Something feels majorly off.

Not only didn't we find anything, after covering more than three-quarters of Forever Fall. We didn't even pick up a single grimm sighting. Not a random nevermore, which are always about the place. Not the odd ursai, which are so endemic to this area that I honestly thought the forest depended on them. Not even those baby nevermores that seem to just be everywhere.

"We need a meeting," I say. "Pilots, sergeants, Team White, and professor." Everyone gathers round while I load my flight-assistant app and zoom the map out to show all of Forever Fall and highlight all the land we covered. Barely a corner to the east is left untouched.

"This is the ground we covered by air," I say, showing them the map. "And in all this land. Not even a random grimm encounter. Not even baby nevermores. Nothing."

Wenge and Tiff share a look, confused. Em nods, crossing his arms. The Atlesian mooks look confused, though.

"Hmm." Goodwitch pinches her chin and narrows her eyes. "That is indeed odd."

"What is?" the familiar voice from Green-Six asks. I smile at the clueless dick. "I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary."

"This isn't Solitas," I say. "The air is so warm here that every area crawls with grimm unless regularly purged. You can't go more than half a kilometre in any direction without spotting one. It's why I had everyone up their grimm scanner sensitivity." And why I called it in over the radio. So whoever these fuckwits are, they're listening in. Unless the grimm suddenly learned to decipher radio waves and learned English on top of that.

That means, whoever is behind the White Fang's sudden mega-ballsy moves, they can control the grimm. Hmm. I know of no organization that can claim that kind of power. But whoever it is, they are far too close to everything I hold dear.

"Everyone's on downtime," I say. "We head out for another run at twenty-one-hundred hours, be prepared for an all-nighter. Only this time, we're going in silent. I'll need every sergeant's, every lieutenant's, and every pilot's contact information."

The brass look at each other, confused.

"You. Could ask for access to the military frequencies," Yellow-Six says.

"But I didn't," I say, glaring at him. "There will be no chatter on any channel. If General Ironwood asks questions, refer him to me. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. You're dismissed," I say. The man nod and walk off to update their teams. "Professor. I'll need you here to guard this position. Do you need any backup?"

"I can handle it," Goodwitch says, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Good. Wenge, Tiff, Em. You're with me."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Sun's sword-form broad edge points right into the light as I check if I got the oil layered on her nice and even. Satisfied, I sheathe her and set my care kit away.

"Anything?" I ask.

"Nothing." Wenge's voice echoes through the Bullhead's bay. I fish out my scroll and click her open. It's seven-fifteen. Night's chill should already be setting in. Grimm should be active, especially with how quiet the day's been. And yet, the scanner picks up nothing, no matter how we up the sensitivity.

Jackboots clang up the ramp, coming my way. One of the greens. From the frown, I'm guessing it's that same asshat Green-Six.

"Something to report, soldier?" I ask the second he enters the bay.

"No, ma'am," he says and stands at attention. This isn't Yellow-Six, at all. The voce is too deep. "Permission to speak freely?"

I stand, slip Sun into my sash, and say, "Granted."

"Do you suspec' a leak in the ranks, ma'am?" he asks. Curious. That's a Mentellian lilt.

"Whether I suspect it is irrelevant," I say, crossing my arms behind my back. "Instead. Look at the variables presented to me. A simple mission to guard an Atlesian engineer turns into a full-on military exercise. A first-year huntress-in-training is put in charge of three teams of Atlesian soldiers. An entire forest that teems with grimm on the most tranquil days is suddenly void of anything but squirrels. There is some serious bullshit going on. And I'm not taking needless risks."

The pilot stands there, arms at his side, lips curled downwards as he mentally chews on what little I give him. "How much do you 'ate the military, ma'am?" Definitely Mantle.

"If it were up to me, you and your men won't fire so much as a shot, and you'll return to your duties in the fleet without incident," I say. That should leave nothing up to the imagination, right? "If you and yours stay out of my way and keep your safeties engaged, there won't be a problem. Does that address your concerns, soldier?"

He balls his fists and frowns. Whether he thinks it's so subtle I won't notice or he isn't conscious of either action, it matters not. "Yes, ma'am."

"Dismissed." The man salutes and about-faces, marching off the same way he came, showing off the markings on his rifle—Y7JS5Z, Lt Sgt Noir.

He's going to be a problem.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The men stand at attention, lined up in presentation format. It's eight-forty-five. We lift-off soon. But there is one thing I cannot not say. Orders are funny like that.

"I'm only going to say this once. None of you have permission to engage unless I say otherwise. If you do not have my permission and you feel you, your squad, or your ship are in danger, you will fall back to this position. If I find out a single safety was disengaged without my explicit authorization, there will be hell to pay. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

I pace back and forth, gauging their reactions best I can. Noir's frown is far more muted this time, but it is most definitely there.

"Your dropships have Gatling-styled guns. They do not have a safety. However. If one of those guns rotates, it will be met with the same fate as a disengaged safety. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," the greens say as one.

"Good," I say and turn to my Bullhead, circling my hand overhead. "Move out."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Grimm sighting. It takes us all of ten minutes in the air to get a hit. I send Green Four to Six confirmation to lower their grimm sensors to standard settings—so we should only spot major grimm with them.

I set mine just the same, but the grimm sighting doesn't flash off. The arrows point south-south-west. All of them.

My scroll vibrates, three messages confirming the same heading. I conference call the three of them and Wenge, and set my scroll to record it—just in case.

"Foxtrot to Greens-Four to Six," I say, once they all answer, "the situation is going to get hot and quick. You will trail behind me at one kilometre. Keep all sensors live and scan for all signs. Over."

One by one, I get a readback of my orders and confirmation they understand perfectly as they fall back.

"You sure about this, Ive?" Em asks. "We could use the firepower."

"That's why they're keeping close. The second it gets too much, I call in the cavalry," I say. Em nods, liking the sound of that.

I keep well above the treeline, so they can't sneak up on us. It risks being picked up on radar, but we're legal so it's fine.

There're no lights at all for kilometres in every direction. I keep my throttle at twenty percent, to let the scanners do their thing. It's not as silent as I'd like, but this isn't a stealth airship.

"Got a hit," Em says. "Two degrees right, one kilometre ahead."

I turn us in that direction, and Em nods to show it's now dead ahead. I tap the top button to spin my gun, just in case. It rotates without hesitation. Currently rocking the max of twelve-thousand reg-rounds. Good. Not that I expect it to change since my inspection at Beacon, but better safe than dead.

We slow as we come closer, and I flick down my goggles. The entire area in front of us is all lit up. Movement all around. Uh huh.

"Foxtrot to Greens-Four to Six. The area is now hot. Call it in to Blue-Two. Over."

I squeeze and hold the top button and glide us into reverse just in time for six griffons to take to the air—or are those sphinxes again? Left eye closes, and I snipe them off one by one. If they're dead, I don't have to care.

"Wenge, need a judgment call," I say. "You good for ground?"

"Not alone," Wenge says. "Have them deploy their knights."

"Foxtrot to Greens-Four to Six. Deploy your knights have them double time it to hotzone. They have permission to engage. Over."

There's movement and belts unfastening. The dropships confirm their orders just as sphinxes break the treeline, already launching fireballs at my position. I glide us up twenty or so metres and snipe off the first one.

_"Ive,"_ Wenge says. _"Open the bay, we're going in."_

I reach forward and open click the bay open just as I snipe off another sphinx. They fire another volley at me, so I drop the ship, giving my team the easiest jump I can even as I snipe off another two in quick succession.

A rushing of wind and twigs snap over the call. _"Ive. We're on the ground. Heading to target," _Wenge says. I click the bay closed—no point in risking some asshat sneaking aboard.

"Understood. If you spot something, call it in and I'll clear the way. Over."

_"Green-Four to Foxtro',"_ Noir says. He's the only one with the Mantellian 'guttural t' at the end of words, after all. _"Knigh's are approaching your position. Should reach ground team in tee-minus thir'y seconds. Over."_

"Roger that, Green-Four. Over. Wenge, you get that?"

_"I'm occupied, not deaf."_ I roll my eyes and jerk the Bullhead up and left of another volley of fireballs. _"We've got Faunus. I figure fifty, maybe sixty of 'em."_

"Scent or sight, Wenge?" I ask and snipe off the last of the sphinxes. If they keep upping the ante, that means either manticores or nevermores will be next.

_"Scent. That means they smell us coming. Can those knights incapacitate?"_

_"Green-Four to ground team. Affirmative. Setting knigh's to stun all humanoids. We have you flagged as friendlies. Over."_

_"Appreciate it,"_ Wenge says. _"Ive. You have my position?"_

"Of course I do," I say, smiling. "You got a target for me?"

_"Three-hundred and twelve metres south-west. Twenty-metre radius."_

I snap my bullhead to the left and aim for the spot he means, spraying the area with rounds.

My sensors pick up nevermores from behind me. I spin around and jerk up fifty metres, snapping a volley right at the first one. Because they're clustered together, I get three of them in one swing.

I take a second to line up the next one, keeping an eye on my sensors.

"Wenge. Got nevermores airborne. What's ground grimm looking like?"

_"Same spread as last time,"_ he says, sounding slightly winded. He grunts from exertion, so he's engaging the enemy. _"Got a visual. Grimm masks. Wolven. So I'm betting this is a Delftenaar." _

"Him or her?" I ask.

_"Him,"_ Wenge says. There's another grunt of exertion and a tree snaps, falling over.

"Tell him his sister tastes good."

_"Hey, Flint! Ivory says your sister tastes good. She won't admit if that's with or without whipped cream, though." _

The feed is filled with growling, and the snapping of bones.

_"Ooh. He's gonna feel that in the morning. Nice shot, Em." _I assume that means Em just broke the little shit's mask. But I doubt Sage will mind if it was his skull.

Sniping off the last nevermore, I turn back around and circle around to where the camp clearly is.

_"Green-Four to Foxtrot. Knigh's are being overwhelmed. Ground bellow you is clear. Over."_

"Copy, Green-Four." I circle back to and hover above where my team is and I hold the middle button, clearing the trees in the way.

At the angle they're cut, they all fall away from my team, revealing small campfires on the ground to stay warm. I circle around again and the scene below comes into view. Dozens of warm bodies are strewn about the place. They aren't in a pool of red or in any way showing cooling, so I assume they're incapacitated.

I click on the external PA system. "White Fang! We are Valean Huntsmen Team White. We are here with a detachment of Atlesian soldiers. Continue to resist, and we will use lethal force. You have to the count of ten to lay on the ground with your hands behind your heads."

Ooh, look I made enough room to land in their campsite. But more importantly, the idiot White Fang members aren't standing down. They're no longer putting up a fight, but that isn't the same thing.

"Three." A few of them drop their weapons and hit the dirt, putting their hands behind their heads. "Two." One turns my way, his head heating up—literally a hot-head. I aim for his left forearm. "One."

No one else gives in, but Wenge tackles the idiot I was aiming at, knocking him out via chokehold. Lucky him. Wenge knows I was about to fuck his life in one way or another.

_"That's the last of them, Ive,"_ Wenge says.

"Foxtrot to Green-Four to Six. Do you have cuffs handy? Over."

_"Green-Four to Foxtro'. Calling into Blue-Two for clean-up crew. Over."_

I turn on my keel camera and ease my Bullhead down into the opening. Weird how there's an opening on the forest floor, but not from the treetops. Must be the trees taking advantage of the regular scuffles with the grimm, or something.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Tents are everywhere, one and two persons—but no command tent, so to speak. There's no fencing of any kind to be found, but the trees grew so close together that you can't find your way in by foot. This place strikes me as a forward battle camp, like they're preparing for war.

The clean-up crew has yet to arrive. So Team WITE and the knights do our rounds to keep the little shits on in line.

_"Green-Four to Foxtro'. I am inbound with clean-up crew. ETA two minutes. They are armed, bu' have their orders to keep weapons holstered and safeties engaged at all times. Over."_

"Roger, Green-Four. Over." This is going to be murder on my calling plan, but it can't be helped. I'm not leaving shit up to chance until I'm officially relieved of my post.

I walk around, scroll in hand, taking pictures of everyone here, without their mask. Until at last I come to an eerily familiar face. He looks just like Sage, if with facial hair.

"Weird meeting my in-laws like this," I say as I take his picture. "You know you cost her her only income, right?"

He bites his tongue and spits the blood at me, but I tilt my head outta the way and let it fly right past me. My hand phases through his neck and grabs his throat.

"If you keep that up, Flint," I say, bending over to whisper right into his ear. "Then I'm sure Sage won't even shed a tear when I tell her I had to shoot you. Hell. Maybe I should call her right now. Ask her what she thinks I should do?"

"There's. No way. My blood would. Ever fuck a. A human." Hard to catch your breath, cupcake?

"Oh? She's ticklish. She snores, light but noticeable. Her morning breath isn't too bad. And she hates sleeping without a sheet." Flint's eyes narrow as he sneers. But I'm not done yet. "She's a cuddler, hates not holding the person nearest her when she's getting comfortable. She talks in her sleep. Always dreams about flying. She hates eating fruits, but loves veggies. Especially the more earthy leafy kinds. Oh, and you should see her face when she's look up at me, with her mouth covering my cunt. Oh gods, she gets this look like she's walking on clouds."

"Ive!" Wenge calls out.

"Hey, he spit blood at me," I say, releasing Flint and pulling my hand out. "That's a biohazard. And I'm sure the Atlesians will do much worse to him if he tries it again."

A dropship hovers down into the clearing.

"Hey. Before they take you," I say with my most shit-eating grin. "Should I call Sage? Let her confirm it herself?"

Flint sneers, but is smart enough not to test me again.

"If it helps. I'm going to use your bounty to make her life so much better. Wine her, dine her. Then, hmm." I grin, my eyes lighting up with mischief. "I'm sure you can imagine what I'll happily let her do to me."

Eight Atlesian soldiers pour out of the dropship bay already pulling bar-cuffs out of bags they have handy.

"Goodbye, Flint. It was nice meeting you."

**_8-8_**

* * *

I stand at attention in Ozpin's office. Goodwitch, Ironwood, and the man himself are all here. For some reason, I'm the only one of Team WITE in attendance. Whatever. I'd already sent Ozpin the recording and a written report, to ensure I don't have to report in on the matter and continue our fucking mission and get it over with before I graduate. But of course, he called me in any-damn-way. Sigh.

"Yes, professor Ozpin," I say, hoping to hurry this along.

"Ms DeWitt. How do you think this mission went?" Ozpin asks.

"As smooth as can be hoped for. It's the implications you need to be aware of. Those White Fang members. They were able to control the grimm we faced, at least to some extent. But that was all in my report. So, why don't we skip the formalities and get to the part where you actually say why I'm here. For once."

"Ivory," Ozpin says and folds his hands to cover the lower half of his face, his green eyes transfixed on me. "I have done my best to be careful with you, because I understand, at least to some extent, that pushing you will do more harm than good."

I cross my arms behind my back, gripping my elbows tight.

"So," Ozpin continues. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"Hundreds if not thousands," I say, doing my damnedest to keep sound pleasant. "Funny, you've answered none thus far. What faith does that inspire that you'll answer anything this time?"

"I can appreciate that. So how about I give you three questions, with the promise—"

"Professor Ozpin," I say, mostly keeping the ice out of my tone. Mostly. "I am not your soldier. And I am sure as hell not the pissy-tailed little girl you seem to expect. So how about you stop dicking around. For once."

"I am trying, Ivory. You seem intent on making that difficult."

"_Me_? I'm—"

"I'm sure you have your reasons," Ozpin motioning for me to calm down, "but could you please tone it down. Just this once?"

I bite back whatever words were about to jump off my tongue, and take a dee~eeeeeeep breath. "Professor. What do you want with me?"

"Presently," he says, smiling for once, "I want to congratulate you on lawfully and ethically arresting a host of White Fang operatives and discovering a method to uncover yet more of their hidden bases. I want to ensure you and your team are paid your dues for their collective bounties. And I want to see if perhaps I can get passed your defences without causing you to snarl."

Ozpin takes out four Lien cards and lays them on his desk. Numbers pop up, showing each has well over twenty-thousand Lien. Huh. For that price, I can be a lot nicer.

"Additionally. I've assigned Team Coffee to handle the last leg of your—"

The intercom beeps. "Professor. We've a situation," the secretary says, urgency in her tone. "A train just breached the city barrier in the south-eastern residential sector."

Fuck!

I turn heel already fishing out my scroll and calling Wenge. "Get the team down to the hangar. Our hood just turned into a grimm-fest."

"Fuck!" The line goes dead.

**_8-8_**

* * *

By the time I get to the Bullhead, Neon already has everything ready to go. Goodwitch and I dash up the ramp just as he lifts-off and it slams closed behind me. I rush passed Team CFVY and into the cockpit. By the time I'm strapped in we're already out of the hangar and making lines for the hot zone.

"What you wanna do, Ive? Snipe or go in?" Em asks.

"I can save more lives down there," I say.

"You're the better pilot," Goodwitch says. "We'll need you to run evacuation, get the injured to the hospital, stat. I'll be on the ground dealing with the rubble and grimm."

Jaw squares, the words I crave to say lie still on my tongue as I glide forward throttle to a hundred. I click on the mic.

"Tango-Foxtrot-Four to Vale Tower. I'm running evac from the hot zone. Over."

**"Roger, Tango-Foxtrot-Four. Uploading all available safe routes—"**

**"Move, you idiot. Vale Tower to Foxtrot. The relay in that area is down so comms are limited. You have full jurisdiction. I repeat, Tango-Foxtrot-Four is unbound. Keep our people safe, Foxtrot. That's an order. Over."**

"Affirmative Vale Tower. Foxtrot is unbound. Over and out." Five-thousand rounds left, but I have almost full tank of dust-fuel. Well, let's make every shot count. I stab my scroll onto the dash and conference call Tiff and Wenge. "Em, I'mma need you here with me. Wenge and Tiff know what to do."

I click to drain the battery into the engine, putting everything I have into forward momentum and steer us towards the billowing smoke.

We make it to the spot just as a king taijitu pokes its ugly heads through the hole in the barrier. And I put a hole in its face. Both faces—fuckwit. But the street is a fucking warzone. Teams RWBY and JNPR are already down there, doing what they can.

_"Bay door,"_ Wenge says, his voice coming from my scroll and behind me.

There's a click the wind bursts through the cockpit, stinking of grimm.

_"On the ground."_ Another click, just as Adel sprays a nevermore with her…I didn't know she had a Gatling-style gun. Whatever.

A pack of beowulves are chasing after civvies. I pull us up and open fire on the fucks as I throttle forward. A click and the door behind us slides shut.

"Attention, citizens," Em says, his voice echoing off the buildings around us. "We're Valean Huntsmen Team White. We're running evacuation." I lower us in front of the group, flick up my goggles and click on the aft and keep cameras, to make sure I don't squash anyone.

The second we land, I click off the battery drain and open the bay door. "Please enter in an orderly fashion." Like hell they will. The group of them clamber aboard, pulling everyone from behind them and pushing the people in front to squeeze as many as they can in one go.

There's only fifty of them in a space designed for ten. Still, better than death. I click up the bay and lift off, already turning and ascending to haul ass to the hospital.

"Wenge, what's your situation?" I ask. We clear the roofline so I click glide forward thrust slowly to a hundred.

_"Goodwitch already plugged the hole, but a lot of them got through," _Wenge says and grunts—no doubt just smashing something's skull. _"Connections horrid here. Call might drop. If it does—"_

"I'll call back the second I'm close. You stay alive. Both of you."

_"We plan—"_ The call drops, cutting Tiff off. Stay safe, guys. Please. I switch to the flight-assistant app and search for Vale General Hospital. I know more or less where it is, but I've never flown there.

I click on the mic. "Foxtrot to Vale Tower. Is there a connection to Vale General? Over." Good. It's less than five minutes away.

**"General Hospital to Foxtrot. Are you inbound? Over."**

"Affirmative. Got a full load, dunno if any are injured. Gonna land at your main entrance. Have a team to meet us there. Over."

**"We have a roof landing pad. Over."**

"And that'll clog up your elevators with people that might not be injured. Not taking the risk. ETA less than a minute. Over."

**"Understood, Foxtrot. Sending a team now. Over and out."**

The hospital comes into view. Big old blue 'H' landing pad on the roof, can't miss it. I pull us down as gently as I can without sacrificing speed, spin us around and land at the entrance.

Em clicks on the internal PA. "Everyone. We're dropping you off at the hospital. You are hereby advised to first calm down, then assess if you are injured. Do not just walk off. And please exit in a calm and orderly fashion. There is no threat here. I repeat, you are perfectly safe here."

The second we land, Em clicks open the bay and we watch the crowd rush out, almost too eager to put distance between them and what they just went through. I check that the bay is empty, and I lift right back up.

"Foxtrot to General Hospital, first evacuees are on your doorstep. We're heading back. Over and out."

**"Understood Foxtrot. GH, Out."**

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Four_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Chapter 5 isn't ready yet. It's been so hot these past days that I simply can't bring myself to write. So it'll take a few days to get that and chapter 6 ready for posting.  
_**

**_Just an FYI. Volume 3 will focus heavily on the tournament, but not in the way you think it will. I think I've foreshadowed enough what you can expect, but the next chapter should show the stakes we're truly working with here. And I'm not taking the blame for what happens. _**

**_Setokaiva's been a champ with how he's tempered a few of the worst mistakes. But as always, I take full responsibility for any and all mistakes left in. And seriously. If any of you are regular readers of my work? You know that this is technically my chapter 10. That means things are about to get...uncomfortably real._**

**_If anyone is uncomfortable with that? Well, the story name should have been your first clue._**

**_Let me know what you think, darlings. And please be patient with me as I polish chapter 5 over the coming days._**


	11. V2:C5—The Highs, the lows

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Two, Chapter Five—The Highs, the lows**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Foxtrot to GH. Got critically injured aboard and inbound. Prep your operation rooms, they are critical. Coming to your roof pad. Will need gurneys. Over."

**"GH to Foxtrot. Sending a team up now. Do you have numbers and injuries? Over."**

"Two with missing limbs. Still bleeding last I checked. One spine injury, crushed legs and lost a lot of blood, patient unconscious. Four with unidentified injuries, including one paediatric. Over."

I put everything I have into speed, knowing time is of the essence. Thank fuck it's a short flight. Don't you fucking dare dying on me!

Tawny clings to me, clutching any part of me she can, sobbing into my chest. She's covered in blood, dunno if she's injured or not, but I don't think she is.

I ease us onto the hospital roof and click down the ramp as three gurneys are wheeled out with accompanying staff in all white.

"Tawny, baby. Look at me," I say as I nudge her back. She clings to me even more frantic, her tears pouring down my neck. "Baby, are you hurt?"

"Daddy. Daddy is." She bawls, her little hands clutching any little fabric she can. I grab my seatbelt and phase only that, so I don't drop her, and stand with her in my embrace. Four of the white-coats work together to lift Mr Bruin up onto the collapsed gurney. His legs are mangled. His face frozen in agony, rivulets of blood streaked from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. It helps, knowing he shielded his daughter from whatever fucked him up, but it does little to quiet the familiar pain.

Wenge just sits there, in the corner, covered in blood, staring at the spot his father just laid. His face is blank, his gaze hollow. I squat down in front of him, capture his chin, and nudge for him to look up at me. His nose points to me, his eyes out of focus.

"Wenge. Do you want to stay here or do you need a distraction?" I ask.

"I." He makes to stand, almost slumping upwards against the hull. "I'll. Go. See how. Uh. I'll. Stay with him. Here."

I nod, knowing he won't notice. Another white-jacket comes to me, asking to take Tawny.

"No. It's. I'll. I'll take. My sister." There's nothing in his voice just now. No inflection, no emotion. Just words.

I carefully untangle Tawny from my embrace and hand her to Wenge. The white-jacket goes with them, peppering Tawny with questions to see if she's alright. Her cries echo out into the distance, fading a little more as they leave me.

"You should go with them," Em says. "I can handle the flight back to Beacon."

"I can't," I say, my voice breaking. Tiff nods and heads out after our teammate. I phase and shake off the blood, and walk back into the cockpit, working myself back into my seatbelt.

I grab my scroll from the dash and dial Mrs Bruin, burying my face in my hand as I half slump on the armrest.

_"Ivy baby, Sage and I were just talking about you," _Mrs Bruin says. The laughter in her tone cuts just a little deeper, knowing I'm about to kill all the joy her world. _"I'm so glad you called. Listen. I know you have a thing going on, but I just sent your father and Tawny to the store to pick up sugar. I'm baking you and Wenge a cake to—"_

"Mrs Bee." My voice cracks. The Bullhead lifts off, no doubt en route to Beacon.

_"Ivory." _Dread replaces her usual singsongy cadence. _"Baby, what's wrong. You sound like you're ready to. Baby, are you crying?"_

Tears jerk free, pouring down my quivering chin. I struggle to swallow the frog in my throat before asking, "Are you sitting down?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

One foot in front of the other, I trudge down the corridor best I can. White walls and flooring echo my footsteps, even with white-jackets rushing about. The group I've come for is just up ahead, taking up a cluster of hard chairs in the waiting area.

Tawny comes running, the right half of her face covered in red-stained gauze. I scoop her up, careful to not drop the tote bag of groceries I brought, but doubly careful to not hurt her—gods know she's been through enough. Mrs Bruin comes running just the same and throws her arms around me. Words are said; none seep through the haze.

Wenge and I wind up seated together, somehow, sipping a cold one while the talking heads on the news get all the facts exactly backwards. Roman Torchwick is brought up, a lot. Apparently he's currently in Atlas custody. But there's no way he's behind this, not with all the White Fang corpses that were at the breech.

The current death toll is just over a hundred souls. The majority were White Fang members, thankfully. Fuck them.

_"Thanks to a slew of up and coming Valean huntsmen teams, it isn't higher,"_ the silverette talking-head says, her nasal voice filling the otherwise quiet waiting hall. _"Teams Coffee, Juniper, Ruby, and White, along with Beacon Professor Glynda Goodwitch were all sighted on the scene. Sources have disclosed that a single M-Fifty-Two Bullhead was seen ferrying huntsmen teams in and civilians and the injured to Vale General Hospital, even while offering their comrades cover fire. The spokesman of Vale Airport identified the Bullhead as Tee Ef Four, though everyone's taken to calling the rookie pilot, Foxtrot."_

I upend my beer, drowning a derisive snort best I can.

_"Most notably, this huntsmen team made no distinction who they rescued. Faunus, Human, rich, poor. Every single life they could save, they did. The elusive Foxtrot was not available for comment, but I'm told she will be taking part in this year's Vytal Festival Tournament. So keep an eye out for Beacon's own Team White, and the star member Ivory DeWitt."_ And, of course, they put up my school ID picture, just to say they're 'reporting'. _"This is Lisa Lavender, signing off."_

Footsteps rankle down the hall, coming our way. A white-coat with a serious look on her face.

"Mrs Bruin?" the woman says. "I'm Dr Chroma. I operated on your husband."

"How…" Mrs Bruin swallows. "Is he…?"

"He's weak. He lost a lot of blood, and there may be complications we can't predict just yet. But, he's stable and calm. You can go see him if you'd like. Only two at a time, and for no longer than five minutes per visit. He needs to rest."

**_8-8_**

* * *

I shake my head.

"It's alright, Ivy. He's been asking for you."

Head shakes violently.

There's. No. I. I can't. I can't face this. Not again.

The door. No matter how violently my head shakes, the door won't go out of focus.

_ICU Unit 1016-b._

The hallway is quiet, but the silence is deafening. Mrs Bruin opens the door.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ The heart monitor is all I can hear. _Beep. Beep. Beep._

Our eyes meet. Yellow eyes, hollow and struggling to smile. I blink and the ghost is gone, leaving Mr Bruin attached to many of the same apparatuses. A mask covers his mouth and nose. His hand reaches out for me, and falls.

I find myself at his bedside, catch his hand before he wastes more energy. A gentle squeeze, weak…cold as ice.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The hand is bigger. More calloused. But it's the same. Exactly the same.

Exactly the same.

No matter how I blink it away, those eyes. Yellow eyes, broken and no longer smiling.

"I…" Lips struggle to form words, tongue labours mightily to nudge them out into the world. The same upside-down frown. The same attempt to ease my pain, to mend the shattered heart worn on my sleeve.

_Beep. … Beep._

Exactly the same.

"I'm. So…rry."

_BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP._

**_8-8_**

* * *

I'm sorry.

Two words.

Three syllables.

Shot glass upends, pouring another round down the hatch, trying to drown out the pain in Mr Bruin's eyes when he recognized me. He looked so…fucked. His usually rosy cheeks were pale and slack. His warm and protective eyes were hollow and out of focus. His strong and gentle hand was as ice; he had just enough kick in him to meekly squeeze my hand and mutter those two words, muffled by the breathing mask, before he flat-lined.

They resuscitated him, thank the gods. Or, at least Mrs Bruin's text claims as much. I wouldn't know. When the white-coats chased me out I stumbled into the nearest bar.

"Hey, doll. Lemme buy you a drink?" the latest doe-eyed fuck asks.

Funny. You sit in a corner by yourself, away from the crowd, armed to the teeth, hunched over a shot glass in one hand, and a half empty bottle in the other. Yet, people think you want to talk. Or maybe he's looking for an easy fuck; a cheap one, too.

"If I look up," I say, pouring myself another round and getting a wet hand for my effort. "It'll be to decide between stabbing, shooting, or grenading."

"Whoa. Alright, take it easy," the same voice says. "I'm going."

The only thing that was different. Was that I didn't have to get wheeled out. Wheeled out by the same soldiers that brought mum and me in. 'Saved your lives', or so they claimed.

A tale that changes every time they opened their…

Fuck this place. I upend the glass and grab the bottle, stumbling out without a fucking word. Paid my tab before he gave me this thing, so fuck him. Don't owe his stupid ass a goodbye or nothing.

"Thought I'd find you here," a familiar voice says the second I'm outside. He looks so much like Mr Bruin, crossing the street and rushing over to me. Makes sense, of course, but the similarity is too much just now. Wenge grabs my bottle and takes a long pull as he wraps an arm around my shoulder. "Sage is staying with ma and Tawny. They'll be alright."

Dunno where the fuck we are just now. Don't care where we're going. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault. You did everything you could."

No, I didn't. I should have cooperated in Atlas, we could have stayed longer. I knew Vale wasn't safe, but I was such a bitch that I hurried everything along. But Wenge'll just disagree, so I grab the bottle instead and take a pull.

"Ive" Wenge's arm tense around me.

"Mm."

"Could you." Desperation creeps into his voice; a need to have something, anything, that will keep his family safe. "Maybe make some bracers. That could act as a force field or something."

"Only if we back outta the tournament."

He takes the bottle back and empties it. "You know we can't do that." Sigh.

"I'll come up with something."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Sigh. I press the button for Ozpin's office and cross my arms behind me. I can't tell if it's being hung-over or a pre-emptive migraine for the tomfuckery about to unfold, but this is the only thing I can think of. I am not losing my family.

The door slides open, revealing Ozpin, Goodwitch, and…sigh. I soldier on, measuring my steps and keeping them as quiet as possible.

"Thank you for coming, Ivory." Ozpin motions for me to take a seat. I'm not sure I can stand through this clusterfuck, so I slump into the chair opposite him. Four Lien cards slide over his desk, the hologram already showing they each have twenty-five thousand Lien—no doubt the bounties along with a bonus for helping with the evacuation efforts.

I pick them up and stuff them into my pocket. "Ironwood. You want me as a specialist, right?"

"Are you drunk?" Goodwitch gets on my case.

"Not nearly drunk enough." The office goes quiet, leaving only the melodic tock-tock-tocking of the seventy-eleven gears to keep me sane. "Answer the question, general."

Goodwitch glares at Ironwood, almost daring him to say something stupid, but Ozpin's gaze is transfixed on me, dissecting me and my angle.

"Yes, Ms DeWitt. The Atlesian—"

"Didn't ask about them. Here are my terms. You transfer Mr Bruin to the best Atlesian hospital and front the bill until I can pay you back. Team White will escort him, and I will be the pilot of whichever airship he's on. You arrange housing for Mrs Bruin, Tawny, and Sage Deltenaar until I have the resources to make other arrangements. Mr Bruin will be under twenty-four hour armed guard, but Mrs Bruin or myself must sign off on any soldiers in his vicinity, and we are to sign off on any visitors he's allowed.

"I get paid based on assignment, and will turn down any I disapprove of. I won't answer to anyone but you personally. I am not taking any subordinates that I do not personally approve of. There will be no airship assigned to me, because I will arrange my own. No weapons will be assigned to me, because I'll be granted unlimited access to three-dee printers to make my own, as long as I provide the materials. The second any of your fuckwits does something, anything, I disapprove of, I leave. No warning, no questions, no explanations.

"And I will make it crystal clear here and now. You get the huntress. R&D can go fuck themselves. Atlesian elites can go fuck themselves. No marriage talks. And no one tells me where the fuck I am going to live. These terms are non-negotiable."

I struggle to my feet, cross my arms behind my back, and stumble towards the lift. "You have until the first match of the tournament to decide," I say over my shoulder.

"You think this was just the first strike." Ozpin's gaze burns into me, as if trying to bore into my skull and put my brain in a jar. "And the next will occur during the tournament?"

"Oh no," I intone and press the button for the lift. "I'm just so eager to move back to Solitas and deal with those ass-backwards cunts on a regular basis."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Calligraphy brush dips into cyan dust-solution and drags against the inside of the beer bottle's mouth, to syphon the excess. Scribble after scribble is drawn onto the inside of the jacket-hoodie, drawing the matrix it needs.

Unlike the cloth hoodies I already made, these white leather hoodies with carbon fibre inner lining should work perfectly in Atlas, so they're designed to integrate with the already present seals matrixes—should up my range and resolution considerably. And with a bigger budget, I won't have to use micro-crystals. Sigh.

"Sorry," Wenge says, hunched over another crystal he's cutting for me.

"I chose this path." With a final stroke of the brush, I focus my aura into the matrix, burning the seal into the leather to mask the design. Knowing those incorrigible fucks, they'll spy on every little fucking thing I do, to see what they can piece together and try to make their own bastardized version of my family heritage. No doubt the true reason those arrogant pissants want me back. I swear, if Mistral or Vacuo could offer the Bruins what they need, I wouldn't piss on Atlas.

Sigh. The die is cast.

Nine fire and twenty-seven hard-light crystals, each hexagonal and roughly thick as my thumb, are lodged into their receptacles on the inside of the hoodie. Three ice and three hard-light crystals, each long and thick as my pinkie finger, come next; one for inside the cuff of each sleeve, the last as a toggles for the raised collars. I fasten them all into place, locking them into their receptacles so they won't budge.

I should probably add titanium plate armour to her, but really, I'm not frontlines. While it wouldn't make it too much heavier, all added weight is added weight—and that will cost me in how far I can move in it. Besides, the extra force field should remove the need of it.

I slip into my new jacket and fasten the toggles from the raised collar down to the hem, and pat the flap to keep the snow and cold from getting past the toggles. It reaches my upper-thigh, so it shouldn't affect my stride. I stretch this way and that—she doesn't hamper me any more than any arctic-quality jacket I've ever worked with, so that's good. And the carbon composite inner lining should do wonders for keeping me nice and toasty in the worst of it.

Satisfied, I loop my new jacket-hoodie onto a heavy-duty hanger and stow it in my closet for now. I'll test if everything works later.

I sit back to my desk, and grab the remnants of the leather pelt I butchered for my hoodie, and slap my left hand onto it. Using my pen knife, I cut an outline of my hand into the material for my glove.

I'm gonna need better jackboots—I'm definitely going to figure out a way to stick to surfaces like Em. Need a better sash, too, with larger pouches. Proper bracers, maybe with a few built-in dust-based weapons, so I'll never be unarmed. And a proper knapsack that can integrate into my new seals.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I flip up my cloth hoodie, covering my eyes. The regular frame-wire rendering comes into view of everyone sitting down to dinner in the mess hall. Squiggles are all I can make out of my meal, half-eaten as it is.

My jacket-hoodie flips up, covering the cloth hoodie. The rendering comes in far sharper, allowing me to see individual hairs on my hand and…suddenly things are…uncomfortable. I loosen my focus, spreading out the area rendered—seeing that many of my classmates naked is **_not_** desirable.

I zoom out to the same wire-frame resolution, and the whole academy comes into focus. Every person on campus lights up in my infrared seals, so sharp that I can tell them apart from their heat signature. Even Ozpin's tea set glows warm on his office desk. The walls are all rendered in my mind. While I can't tell what material they're made of, I can see how thick they are—it's kind of a guessing game where the doors are this way.

Alright. Now I just need to get my team some infrared lamps, so I can tell it's them. And we should be golden. Hmm. Can I track what's under me?

…

What the fuck is that?

There's an entire city block of shit going on under the school. Looks like there's a…yes, definitely a woman in some kind of container with all kinds of shit hooked up to her. It looks almost like…she's in hospital, but the prison security kind. There's also a corridor of sorts. Huge, to be sure. With a door that doesn't lead anywhere, like it runs right into hard stone, and that's it.

Fuck, there's an Atlesian marching-gait type coming my way. I zoom back down, finding…

I didn't know the assassin had prosthetic legs? And mint-hair, beside him, she was more Lien cards on her that is practical—if that doesn't point to a thief, I don't know what does. But what's even more curious, is the brunette. The boss-lady with the pair. She has a curious little beetle nestled up her sleeve as she eats. Her eyes keep flicking to me, as if subtly studying me.

"Ms DeWi'," Noir says, standing at attention in front of me. If the Mantellian accent didn't give him away, his markings on his rifle certainly do. Why would Ironwood send this one? Does he really think I wouldn't remember one of dad's subordinates? Or is he here because he was dad's subordinate? "General Ironwood would like a word. If you like, ma'am, I could be your wings."

I zoom back out, focusing on Ozpin's office. There are three people there. One standing at attention, Ironwood. One with arms crossed under her bust, Goodwitch. And one sitting at the desk sipping coffee—or tea, but it makes no difference.

So why is he offering to fly me there?

Whatever. "Tell him I'll be along as soon as I'm done eating," I say as I grab my fork and get back down to it.

He presses his finger to his ear. That's ineffective. "Noir to Blue-Two. Inform the general she'll meet with him Over…Roger. Noir, out." Ah, so he's been ordered to be amicable with me.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The lift door opens. Noir marches out ahead of me, his back to me and arms draped beside him. He salutes to Ironwood and moves out of the way to show he isn't including himself in the discussion.

"General," I say, standing at attention. No salute or any of that. Fuck that.

"Ms DeWitt. Thank you for coming." Ironwood turns fully to me, his arms crossed behind his back, much like my own. "I've considered your terms and discussed them and the ramifications with the council."

Finger taps against my biceps, patiently awaiting modifications. Don't know what he'll want to demand/add, but it won't be nothing.

"Your terms are reasonable. So I wish to expand upon them, as a show of goodwill." Ironwood's ocean blue eyes stare unblinking. "First, the offer of an Arfiftytwo Hornet. Not issued, not sold. Offered. It would be a welcoming gift, and therefore your possession to do with as you please."

Don't know much about it, but I'm sure that'll come with time. And he's careful to not tie me down with that, too much. I nod.

"Second. A class of newly graduated privates to train, which you'll be paid for. This allows the military higher quality soldiers, and you may select of them whomever you please for your personal team, within reason. Of course, this would only be on offer once you graduate."

I nod. Not perfect, of course, but it gives me the leeway I demanded. So, fair.

"Third. You'll be given one Ayzeesixteen molecular reconstructor." A three-dee printer of my very own. What's the price tag? "With an open invitation to design prototype weapons and support items for the troops."

I bite back a snort.

"You will, of course, be paid handsomely for any and every prototype sold to us, provided the Atlesian military is your sole patron. And if you were to desire a modest budget, you may put in a request for funding and/or materials."

Sigh. It's not strictly going against my terms, since I'll have 'the option', instead of standing orders. Whatever.

"And lastly. I will require that you continue your schooling. Whether here, or at Atlas Academy. Are these added stipulations agreeable, Ms DeWitt?"

"Yes. When are we flying him out?"

"The transfer is scheduled for tomorrow at thirteen-hundred hours. You'll be given unrestricted access to the dropship he'll be transferred on as of oh-nine-hundred hours. Lieutenant Sergeant Noir will be assigned to you for the duration of the transfer, your stay in Atlas, and the return trip. He can work you in for piloting the dropship, and has strict orders that no one is to approach you without my say-so. Will you require a full escort while in Atlas, Ms DeWitt?"

"No. Will that be all, general?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

Completely different. Each and every fucking cockpit is completely different. Whatever. I strap myself into the pilot's seat, looking around to see what I can recognize. Two throttles, a fuckton of buttons and switches, and a dashboard with more lights and gadgets than a pinball machine.

"Engine primers are…" Noir trails off as I flick up the three engine primers on the dash, run my finger over every marking and flick up every system boot I recognize. They look different, but they are marked just the same as every other gods-damned airship I've ever seen.

Three screens blink to life, showing the dreadnaught 's hangar floor and the dropship's two ramps. Another click and the twin ramps retract.

"Not too different from a Bullhead," Em says as he dons his headset and goggles. He turns his head this way and that and flicks up what I assume are the nightvision and infrared systems, obviously getting a feel for the targeting system. "I can control both Gatlings."

My headset and goggles slip on, I grab the steering. Three buttons just like the Bullhead. I hold the right top in, and the rotation symbol flickers on, to the right. I hold the left top button in, and both rotation symbols come on. I nod, understanding all I need to about that.

Different, but similar all the same.

Goggles slip up. Hmm, that one should be the mic.

"What's our callsign?" I ask.

"Green-Four." Figures.

"Em. We're running two laps. I take the first." This is going to be the mother of all migraines.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Green-Four to Atlas Airport. Requesting final approach to Veterans Hospital. Over." It doesn't take more than a second to be 'welcomed' to Atlas, and given my approach vector. Once it's keyed in, it gives me an almost direct path to where I need to be. They aren't being a bunch of cunts, for once.

It's not more than ten minutes later that we're flying into the Vet Hospital's hangar, finding a team of medic-styled white-coats, with a handful of the military-styled white-coats and their usual cortège. Sigh. They aren't even pretending they learned from our last encounter.

I touch down, open the port bay door so they can start getting Mr Bruin into a more peaceful environment, and take my precious motherfucking time going through my post-flights. I even go out of my way to check how much fuel the flight took and call one of the greens from Green-Six. It takes almost ten minutes of back and forth, with them explaining in detail why I don't have to report that at all, before they just give up and report to Blue-Two's command deck and get the major on duty on the line.

_"Ms DeWitt?"_ an unfamiliar voice asks. _"Is there. Something I can do for you?"_

"Just reporting in. The flight took eight hours and—"

_"Ms DeWitt. Are you calling me as an excuse to keep the council waiting?"_ From the amused tone and the clear smile, I'm guessing he doesn't much like dealing with those…people either.

"I would never." I roll my eyes. "How's your shift going?"

A breathy chuckle hints that he has his answer. _"I could patch you through to General Ironwood, if you prefer?"_

"Killjoy. Foxtrot, out." I hang up and meticulously update the ship's log, adding clearly unneeded details that no one else bothered to fill in—I'm not sure why no one thinks atmospheric pressure and a detailed weather map during the flight were left out of variables required for maintenance, so I add all that in the field 'additional notes'. The cockpit door opens.

Wenge leans against the doorway, arms crossed and a knowing smile aimed at me. "Come on. Everyone's waiting."

Sigh.

We make our way down the ramp, finding Atlas's infamous councilmembers. But, instead of all that, I walk right over to Mr Bruin's contingent.

"Hey, what's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing, sweetie." Mrs Bruin grins, eyes lit up like Tawny's on Christmas morning. She and Sage wrap their arms around my elbows and drag me along. "There, see. She's with us, Serge. Can Team White escort you to your room?"

Mr Bruin sports a worn shit-eating grin as he nods. So that's where Wenge gets it from. Noted.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I slump onto the couch, plopping my head into Sage's lap as I stare through the door at the doctors discuss something with Mrs Bruin. It's…not the kind of 'room' I expected, to be honest. That Mr Bruin has three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a living room, separate dining room, and a fully furnished kitchen to himself is…odd. This is a hospital, right?

Not complaining, given Mrs Bruin, Tawny, and Sage could comfortably call this place home until something else is arrange. But that doesn't make it less peculiar.

Wenge has eight Atlesian soldiers lined up, at attention, as he paces back and forth, addressing them and issuing their current orders and rotation and all that. All of them wear modified soldiers' uniforms, but that isn't too surprising. Faunus, the lot of them. I only recognize Sgt Katt and Lt Usagi, though I'm sure Mrs Bruin requested all of them by name. I'm…not too sure about the feathery-winged one, though. The canary yellow hair and feathers is…awkward. Mostly because she reminds me of the dreadful bird Aunt Petunia would always visit us with.

"That means whenever mom, Sage, or Tawny wishes to go out into the city, they will have at least two of you as armed escort." It's all fairly standard stuff, really, but Wenge isn't leaving anything to the imagination. "We don't know how long before the situation changes, but once dad's released from the hospital, Ivory and I will likely come to make preparations. Until then, you will be our eyes, our ears, our hands. Betray this trust, and it will not be extended to you a second time. Is that clear?"

Sage's tail taps me, her tail hairs tickle my nose and face. Her smiling gaze meets mine, an air of calm surrounding her and pouring into me as she runs her fingers over my scalp. The room is chilly, just the way I like it, but this is…this feels wrong, somehow. It's strange to not be bothered by asskissing fuckwits while in this city.

There's a knock at the door. Ah. I don't want to say that's better, but it certainly is more familiar.

Wenge saunters over to the front door.

"How much do you want to bet that's either Schnee or one of the generals here to pester me about something or other?" I murmur, getting an amused chuckle from everyone present.

"Ms Schnee." Wenge's amused tone has each soldier before me puff up their cheeks as they purse their reddening lips to keep from laughing. But they are even more amused with how Wenge stands right in the doorway to not give her the chance to 'invite herself in'. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Mr Bruin. It's good to see you again." I roll my eyes. Why is it no one ever just answer the fucking question? It's not hard. Question is posed; answer is given that directly relates to said question. It's only the basis for fucking communication. "I've come to welcome Ms DeWitt to Atlas, and to lend my aid, should Dr Bruin's guard desire it. We both know much of the brass will…selectively listen to orders upon Ms DeWitt's departure."

"Funny you should mention that, Ms Schnee. I was just issuing dad's guard their orders. And that includes shoot to kill and using extreme prejudice." There isn't a Faunus present that doesn't sport a shit-eating grin. "It might be wise to inform the ranks that Team WITE places a lot of stock in the wellbeing of my family and Ms Delftenaar."

I drag myself to my feet and walk over to Wenge. He looks at me over his shoulder, eyes drawn, but he moves out of the way when I motion for as much. I grab my jacket from the coat rack and slip into it.

"I'm heading out," is all I say.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Of course the hospital doesn't have a fucking bar. Nor does the entire fucking base. So I head out into the gods-damned city and into the first fucking bar I find. The bartender, a Faunus I knew from around the way, his eyes widen on seeing me. I walk over to a quiet booth in the back, away from the other patrons.

A waitress comes to me, her eyes wide and jaw low.

"Bottle of bourbon. House brand is fine," is all I say as I slip out of my jacket and lay my rifle and Sun on her to keep them handy.

As her flats click on the linoleum flooring, every gaze in this place finds me. Not that they weren't already fucking staring as I walked in. I fish out my wallet and scroll, taking my drinking funds card and check the balance. Two-hundred Lien.

"Lady De—"

Don't know who the fuck that is. Don't much care. For some reason, unholstering Moon and slamming her onto the table is enough to shut them up. For a time.

"You have three seconds to walk away," I say, still not looking up.

"Of. Of course, My…My Lady. Welcome home." Heels click together. A shuffling sound, as if they turned heel. And the stead clapping of jackboots fade into the distance. Fucking cockroaches.

Home. I snort derisively.

"Of course this is where I find you." Wenge struts over and plops into the booth, across the table from me. Tiff and Em are not on his heels, but only Sage dares sit beside me. And just in time for the waitress to come back and set the bottle in front of me with an empty lowball glass, a box of thin cigars, and one of those throw-away match boxes bars tend to have.

"From the gentleman at the bar." I glare, finding Schnee there. Of fucking course.

Sage pops open the bottle and pours me a drink as everyone places their orders.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Ahh." Sage brings another offering of kibbeling for me. Never did like battered and fried fish bits, but I bite it off her fork all the same and chase it with another swig of bourbon.

The reedy staccato of whatever the fuck passes for music in this place isn't nearly obnoxious enough to drown out the fucking crowd come to gawk at the freak that returned to Atlas at long last, nor their murmurs of 'princess' and 'DeWitt' and other things I really don't want to fucking make out.

I grab some fries and prop them into my mouth.

"Spoke to mom," Wenge says, pouring himself and me another drink. "She secured a—"

"You should stay with them," I say and down another drink.

The table grows quiet. So it's back to this. I grab the bottle, refill, and down that one too. Even without looking, the guilt on Wenge's face is more than obvious. No one ever listens, even as they proclaim otherwise. I down my drink, refill, and down it again.

No one ever fucking listens.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The transcontinental flight was boring. Just how I like it. But, of course, the first thing I need to face is landing this bird on Blue-Two. I go through the post-flights with Sage on the line, to let the family know we've arrived safe, and so she can keep me sane long enough to deal with the headache I just fucking know is coming.

Once the ship's log is once again painstakingly up to date, I hand it to Noir and leave without a word. With a little luck, either whoever decided I needed 'an official welcome' already left, or I'll have an excuse that it took much longer than I anticipated and I need to report in—or some shit.

Em and I exit the dropship together, finding Wenge and Tiff talking to Ironwood. I roll my eyes.

"I trust everything went well," Ironwood says. I nod and walk right passed, heading towards the hangar bay. Tiff waves us over. But Wenge…

Wenge stares off into the setting sun, his hands in his pockets. As I approach, I wrap my arms around his elbow and lean my head against his bicep.

"The longest night, huh," he murmurs. I nod. What point is there in denying it? The signs are all there, plain as day. "You got my back?"

_Don't come at me with your pipedreams, you little shit!_

_Ha! Shows what you know. I'll have you back on your feet in no time._

"Always," I say. No matter how things change, baby bear. You've always stayed exactly the same.

Not missing a beat, the four of us jump down to the treetops of Forever Fall. Come what may, we face it together.

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Five_**

**_8-8_**

**_End Volume Two_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Two things to note here. _**

**_First. I wasn't happy with what chapter 6 was turning into, so I slashed all the useless scenes and condensed both chapters 5 and 6 into this chapter. I see no point in the things I wanted to fit in just yet. They'll come with time._**

**_Second. For those who noticed, Sage said that Ivory's parents both died in the fire. And yet, Ivory has a flashback of her mother in an ICU unit. This isn't contradicting what really happened, but the scenes that explain it in depth are simply out of place here. I don't want to bog it down, especially since pushing to far just now isn't needed._**

**_So. I'm going to start on Volume 3. It's going to be where things start diverging from cannon. In what ways? You'll just have to wait and see._**


	12. V3:C1—Two kinds of immortality

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Three, Chapter One—Two kinds of immortality**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

I stand at attention in Ozpin's office once again, my arms folded behind me. Ozpin, Goodwitch, and Ironwood, for some fucking reason, felt the need to call me in. Again. Called me out of Oobleck's class, in fact. And yet, not one of them has addressed me.

Ozpin sips his coffee. Goodwitch paces back and forth, not muttering but she has a look on her face hinting she might be tempted to. Ironwood stands at attention, his arms folded behind him and shoulders tucked back. This has been the general theme of this meeting. And again. Not a fucking word spoken.

"As enlightening as this meeting has been," I intone, glaring dully. "Does anyone feel like telling me why I need to be here instead of…Oh, I don't know. Being in class?"

"Ms DeWitt," Ironwood says. Fucking finally. Words. Verbal communication. It's a thing. "Would you say there is a group on campus that…raises suspicion?"

I cock an eyebrow. "Ozpin. What's the darkest night really about?" I ask. You love your riddles, don't you, pumpkin?

"I see," Ozpin says, slurping his coffee. I never did ask if that's tea or coffee though. Still, given how comatose he seems to be, caffeine should be high on his priority list. "When do you think they'll act?"

"When their point is best made." I roll my eyes. "The group you're looking for. It's that Haven team. Three of them. The assassin that challenged Kiros, has two prosthetic legs. The thief with mint green hair. Goes by…Emerald or something. And the brunette with the ponytail. She calls the shots, and has a tiny grimm in her right sleeve. Looks like a beetle."

"Haven…" Ironwood trails off, his eyes out of focus. "Have they scouted you?"

"Started weeks ago." I'm amazed they haven't approached me, really. Not that I'll let these assholes know that. They're too busy trying to 'plot around me'.

Goodwitch and Ozpin share a look. Little more than a glance, really, but telling all the same.

"I see." Ironwood turns towards the clock gears window, his back to me. "Ms DeWitt. Are you working for them?"

"Absolutely," I sneer. "That's why I approached you to get the Bruins out of Vale, because I obviously have other options."

"Ms—"

I turn and walk towards the lift.

"Ivory." Ironwood's soft, almost pleading tone freezes me in place. It's so unlike him. "Please. You don't know what's at stake." So the little girl that has at least three professors actively withholding information doesn't know what's going on. Really? Sounds like you're better at your job than you realise.

"Are the Bruins safe?" I ask.

"If these people have their way," Ozpin slurps his coffee, "no one will be safe. You know that best of all."

No point in denying reality. The stories mum told me, the histories our family kept from the public eye. It doesn't paint a very pleasant picture. "I should therefore…what? Tell you everything? I mean, it's not like you'd ever lie to me. Or hide things from me. Or do anything that might jeopardize trust between us. Right?"

"You choose," Ozpin says. "That's what a Mantle breakfast is all about."

I snort. How like you. You fuckwits accustomed to power. We lowly miscreants must bow to you—not because we want to, but because the price of disobedience is too great.

"Let me guess." I shift my weight to one leg, but don't turn to them. "You need me to do something."

"We…" Ironwood trails off as jackboots clap against the floor. It sounds like he turned around to face me, to stare at my back. "I…need you to prepare for war. To help us save every life we can."

I press the button for the lift. "Like you saved my mother?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

The airbus lifts off. All teams are en route to Amity Colosseum, for our official introduction to the world. Most of the unknowns are here. Team SSSN, Team RWBY, Team JNPR, Team CRDL, Team NDGO…Don't recognize any of the other teams, though I know individuals. Mint-hair, the assassin and the shot-caller—I know them. Don't much care for the rest, really.

Rollerblades scrape against the steel flooring. Neon Katt makes her way over with the rest of her team. Not sure how I missed them, really.

Flynt Coal looks as uptight as I remember, and the cocky smirk hasn't changed much. His dad runs a dust shop in Mantle—mum wouldn't order from anyone else, if memory serves. He's dressed like a member of a Blues band, with his dark fedora with blue trim and dark shades.

Neon herself is…well, neon. She looks as full of life and energy as ever, with her puffy hair going every which way and her cat tail jittering about excitedly. Everything about her is loud. From the bright colours to the megawatt grin to how she practically tackles me with a hug and peppers me with a million questions before I can even get a word in.

Keith Kale is…well, he looks as constipated as ever with his three piece suit and dress shoes. While Coal looks ready to party, Kale looks ready for a meeting with management. Like he was born with a stick up his ass and rather likes it being there. Of one of the few noble families of Mantle that didn't abandon ship and move to Atlas—though, like me, he got caught up in the education system and had to move there all the same.

Ilex Holly. She seems to have taken a page from Neon's book, with her bright colours joie de vivre—at least she's kind enough to not try to touch me. I'm not sure about the neon orange cat suit, or the dozens of neon-coloured bracelets dangling from her forearms. Or the pink and blue stars tattooed on her cheeks with matching buttons on her scarf. What the hell is it with bright colours? Seriously.

"Mama told me to look out for you, but I didn't think we'd actually get to spot you. Girl, you're as impossible to find as ever." Neon keeps gushing and carrying on and rubbing her cheek all over my face.

"Yo, Neon," Coal gets on her case. "Come on, give Ive some breathing room." It takes some doing, between him and Wenge, but they eventually get the hyperactive Faunus off me.

"It's so good to see you! Omigod, it's been forever!" Holly continues, completely unbothered that Neon disrespects my personal bubble. Nothing new there.

"Didn't recognize you with the doo." Coal crosses his arms and smiles, no doubt thinking something stupid. Fuck this brings back memories.

Kale opens his mouth.

"Oh shut it, stick in the mud," Holly gets on Kale's case before he gets a syllable out. "DeWitt's never been shy about speaking her mind. So if Neon does something she doesn't like, we'll hear about it." I shake my head, chuckling about how little has changed with them. "Seriously, though. It's good to see you."

"Ditto," I say as I turn to the window. My smile becomes a bit forced as the floating Colosseum comes into view.

"We're going clubbing," Neon continues, clearly not noticing the shift in mood. "Tonight. You're coming with us. And no, I'm not taking a rain check. Flynt deejays at a different bar every night. So we can get you in, no problem."

Amity Colosseum. The Vytal Tournament. Sigh.

Let the madness begin, I guess.

**_8-8_**

* * *

**"Ladies and gentlemen. May I present to you, the sixteen teams from across the four kingdoms."** Port and Oobleck seem to be the MCs for the tournament. The arena, where we'll be fighting, is large. It seems to be some kind of wide open space, all flat and metallic—not the best for sniping, but it removes their cover as well. We can make this work. I stand at attention with my arms crossed behind me and my hoodie down. There's little point in hiding here, after all, but I wish they'd let me present with my weapons. I feel naked without them.

**"Representing Beacon Academy and hailing from Argus, Ms Pyrrha Nikos. A four time champion of—"**

Sigh. They just have to do this, don't they. Every time. They need to talk about shit from the past. So what will they say about me?

**"Representing Beacon Academy and hailing from Mantle, Ms Ivory DeWitt. She's been getting quite a bit of attention recently, by her callsign. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. This is Foxtrot herself."** Huh, not as bad as I feared.

** "That's right, Peter. She does her heritage proud. Did you know that her family's crest contains a snake sword? Yes, a long history, the DeWitts." **

Sigh. Of course he'd know that. Whatever. As long as the usual 'sole survivor' shtick isn't brought up.

**"And that's the contestants."** Port finally reaches the end of the lineup. Why we need to be here for this in person is beyond me. **"We'll be moving onto the exhibition matches in just a moment. All competitors are allowed to put their name in the hat, of course, but it is not required. And, as is the custom, the polls are open for who you want to see today."**

**"That's right. While each competitor is allowed to veto, I've yet to see one of them do so. So if you see a one-on-one of one of the competitors haven't already volunteered to an exhibition match, vote now!"**

Sigh.

**"And the polls are now closed. If I didn't know any better, Professor—"**

**"Doctor,"** Oobleck corrects him again. When's he going to learn that no one cares how much work his PhD cost him? He chose to pursue it, not us.

Port clears his throat. **"As I was saying, if I didn't know any better, I'd think that everyone in Mantle wants to see Ms DeWitt in an exhibition match."** Fucking traitors.

**"Yes, and everyone in Argus seems to want Ms Nikos. So what better way to ask Ms DeWitt and Ms Nikos to start the tournament off right, than by having a full contact match between the two?"**

I turn to the exit.

"Ivory," Nikos calls out, clearly misunderstanding the situation. "Where are you going? Everyone wants us to put on a show." The crowd cheers, obviously both hearing Nikos and agreeing with her.

"I chose not to participate in the exhibition matches." I stop and peer at her over my shoulder. "If they do not respect my choices. Why should I respect theirs?" And I walk off, the crowd booing me as I go. Fuck them. They don't pay my bills, and they sure as fuck won't come to my aid when shit hits the fan.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I plop into a chair at the bar. The bartender nods to me, still cleaning one of the lowball glasses. Some moustached asshat I don't know, but then I've never been to this bar.

"Beer," I hear from behind me. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that's Noir. And, unsurprisingly, a uniformed Atlas asshat takes the seat beside mine. "Whatever's on tap."

**"What do you make of Ivory DeWitt refusing the crowd?"** The tv over the bar shows one of the familiar talking heads terviewing some random fuck on the streets of Vale. The caption marks the white-haired nobody as a tourist from Atlas—just what we need, another Atlas yuppie telling us what we did wrong.

**"She showed no class. If this is the kind of huntress she intends to be, I am not impressed." **

I roll my eyes. "Beer."

The talking head keeps interviewing spectators who were at the 'unveiling ceremony'—luckily, most of them talk about other contenders, and gush about their exhibition matches. Em, Tiff, and Wenge get quite a few mentions; good for them.

Two beers are served, nice and frothy. Noir raises his glass to me. "To gu'ersnipes."

"To telling the man to go fuck himself." I raise my glass to Noir's and the bartender's chuckles. Noir and I clink our glasses together and drink.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Entering Beacon's hangar, the bare walls echo the clapping of my boots and the rattling of both trolley, thousands of shell casings, and dozens of containers of powdered dust I brought. Let alone all the rifles and little pet projects I've been working on.

I push the trolley along, up to the ramp of my new AR-52 Hornet. Sleek little thing. Snow white metal gleams in the harsh florescence of the hangar. Looks almost like it has a cockpit to the front and rear, with the back reminding me of a wasp's stinger, almost. Weird needle-like guns—one on all four of those weird arm-looking wings. Funny X-pattern for the wings, too—not sure what to make of that. No longer than the Bullhead, but clearly isn't meant to handle the same load with its wispy design.

"The Hornet." Em's tone is almost breathless. I roll my eyes, uncaring what has him all mushy about it. "How the hell did you get your hands on one?" By selling my soul, that's how. Try it, it can't possibly go wrong.

Ignoring him, I push on up the ramp and into the bay. There isn't much to see. A dozen chairs to one side, arranged in pair under the see-through dome. What looks like charging stations for those dumb ass androids that there's no way I'm keeping near me. And two doors, one no doubt leads to the cockpit. The other?

Trolley gets parked against the wall and I walk over to the rear door, pressing the pad to activate it. A narrow corridor with lights and all the bays for fuel and ammo, little different from the Bullhead. Through the door at the other end, I find a decently sized kitchenette, complete with counter, microwave, cabinets, sink, and what looks like two mini fridges. All in the same sterile white of the rest of the ship. Whatever. But there's a front-facing chair with controls—looks to be a turret station almost. Could be useful in a dogfight.

I open the three doors opposite the counter, finding two toilets and a closet—likely for storage, but lacking any shelves or hangers. I'm so using this place for my private workbench.

Close the doors and head back to the main cabin. The other door takes me to the cockpit. There're the usual chairs for pilot and co-pilot, with all the usual bells and whistles to work the ship. I like the see-through ceiling, though. It'd be a lot easier to spot marks that way. And the two extra seats? Not sure what to make of them. They're set up like the others, so likely not meant to monitor anything—especially since they're not set up to reach any of the dashboards or controls.

Controls look similar to the Bullhead, with the same headgear and stick with similar triggers. Tanks look to be full, for fuel and whatever armaments this baby has. Not sure how to feel about there being no numbers of rounds, though. I happen to like firing rounds as opposed to lasers, thank you very fucking much.

Sigh. This baby's gonna need a metric fuckton of upgrades. Gun closets for secure storage. Seals for better defences. Replacing those stupid guns. Maybe work in a gun like Wenge's baseball bat? Stock enough MREs to last for a while. Store enough rounds for all my weapons. Make dust-rounds for the guns.

"Yo, Ive. What say we take this baby out for a test drive?"

"Can't yet. Need to put in the paperwork." And I need to come up with a name for her.

Sigh. That's not even considering the stupid tournament.

**_8-8_**

* * *

**"Here they come. Team White."** We make our way to the centre of the arena to the roaring cheers of the crowd. There are a few holding up printed pictures of Em and Tiff, showing them some love for some reason.

**"The crowd seems taken with Mr Neon and Ms Tulip,"** Port says. **"Unsurprising, given how well they did in the exhibition matches."**

**"Quite right, Peter. Mr Bruin and Ms DeWitt will need to make quite the show if they hope to catch up. And here come their opponents. Shade's own, Team Verdant."**

The four assholes from that night at Twinkles stand opposite us, at attention with their hands balled at their sides. Sniper-guy stands more to the back of the group. Twin-tonfas, sword-n-shield, and stick-boy are shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes hard and strong resting bitch face game.

A loud beeping rings out, looping over itself like an old-timey game show wheel. Ginormous holograms hover about the arena, showing symbols I can't make sense of.

With one last PONG, the ground around the central hexagon shifts down into the ground, and is replaced by tall dry grass on our side, and an urban landscape on theirs. The dozen or so buildings look like decent cover; lots of windows for sniping, lots of little nooks and crannies to hide in.

"Heh." The stick-wielder brandishes his weapon, sneering at me. "Looks like payback's on the menu. Eh, boys?"

I turn to Wenge. His eyes dart about, weighing the options of how to handle this. "Em. Tiff. You pick your corpse yet?" That means we're going balls to the wall, again. Sigh. That means I'm handling the sniper.

I sigh as I reach over my shoulder and pluck my rifle from its perch. "Let's just make it quick. I've got shit to do."

**"Three. Two." **I aim, finger taut against the button.** "One. GO!" **Grenade rockets out of barrel, over sword-n-shield's shoulder, right at sniper's face. Squeeze trigger, pulling muzzle down to compensate for recoil.

Target ducks. Sword-n-shield cowers behind his shield, giving me full access to target. Grenade explodes, freezing the target, and a dozen more shots rip through the ice only to lash him in the face and chest. When I hear the loud buzzer, I release the trigger, and the last shot gets him in the dick. Or, well, it would have hit his dick if not for the ice protecting the asshole.

**"Ooh." **Oobleck sounds like he took that shot himself.** "He'll feel that in the morning!"** I'm far more interested in retreating into the tall grass so the idiots can come into our territory. Especially since their coverfire just got ass-fucked.

**"Ruthlessly efficient."** Port sighs. **"Per the norm with Ms DeWitt."**

Once hidden in the grass, I make a beeline away from the enemy. The others know what to do. And besides, my part is handled; let them have the spotlight.

Only when I'm sure I've lost line of sight do I work my way around to the buildings. As I approach the first one, I click my rifle back into storage form and sling it over my shoulder. Gloved hand reaches out and touches the cold stone as the gravity crystals on the back glow bright violet.

I pull back, soft at first, but soon with all my might. My glove is stuck, the supports tug on my elbow and shoulder, refusing to let me go. Good. My jackboot claps against the wall, the sole glowing violet as my glove dims.

It's slow going, trying to remain unseen just now, but I scale the surface, making my way up onto the roof. The arena looks small, small enough to see the grass dancing about as my team engages the enemy.

Fetch rifle—still needs a name. Lens caps clip up.

_"You in position?"_ Wenge sounds amused. His breathing is even, unhurried. Yeah, they're giving those idiots the run-around to buy me time.

I press a little button at the base of the scope and zoom out as far as she goes. The grass lights up, a dull red, with six bright red blobs spread out. Three flail about, clearly hacking away at the grass to clear it, clearly looking for something. The other three have white dots on their limbs as they keep out of reach and sight. Hard to tell who is who, but as long as I don't shoot my team, it's all good.

With each passing second, the IR scope acclimatizes. The grass's dull red fades to black, leaving only dull red marks. Zooming in, it's so much easier to identify my team. The stances gives the enemy away. One swings his sword-arm, holding his shield at the ready. I zoom in about halfway on him. Close enough for me to get a clear shot, but not so much I lose track of the field.

"Yeah."

_"Silencer?"_ Ah fuck. That means I'm running interference.

"Don't have one."

As one, my team stops moving. Betties close in. Shit, they're going with jack-in-the-box. Too close for Wenge to speak without giving away his position.

"Taking the shot." I set fire to single shot. Wenge holds his bat at the ready, keeping low to the ground best he can.

Trigger pulls. Betty takes the shot to the back of the head and flies forward. An explosion. Em rockets up and knees his mark in the face, flinging him at Tiff's stalker. Tiff thrusts her pogo. The whole area lights up, between Em's fire and Tiff's electricity frying both marks and the air around them.

Lowering my rifle, all I see is Wenge post homerun swing as three silhouettes tumble through the grass and off the stage.

The buzzer rings.

**"Down they go!"** Port calls it. **"Team Verdant is out of bounds!"**

**"This round goes to Beacon's Team White!"**

**_8-8_**

* * *

The fairgrounds are full of life, and stalls full of food. Ankle high grass, green and springy, stretches out as far as the eye can see, dotted with tents and littered with idiots all looking for a good time. Most stalls offer food of one sort or another, but the most popular ones house those carnival games I never could understand. Guys are all throwing balls at bottles to win something—and that something always seems to be some kind of stuffed animal. Must be some antiquated way to slip into someone's panties.

We traipse about, looking for a stall with free seats—not exactly the easiest feat just now. But Wenge spots one just the same. A dingy-looking tent with barstools set up in the shade of an overhang.

The old man looks familiar somehow, but I can't seem to place him. You'd think a bald man that speaks in grumbles and has perpetually closed eyes would stand out. I know we haven't been to his stall before, though. Words are said, things are discussed, not that I pay them much mind.

I'll need to make the cannon recoilless, it'll affect flight otherwise. Will need to test how nimble a ship she is. She needs a name, too. Hmm. Everyone calls me Foxtrot, so might as well…no. Fuck that. I'm calling her Starlight. Fuck yeah. Moon, Sun, Starlight…and I'll name my fucking rifle Foxtrot. So anyone talking shit can be properly introduced to Foxtrot from now fucking on.

The autopilot has already been gutted, so there's no chance of anyone trying any shit. I'll need a few microwave ovens, to make heating up MREs easier. The passenger seatbelts will need upgrading, too. Hmm. I'll want dust-rounds for both cannons and Gatlings. But what calibre do I want for the Gatlings? I can fuck most assholes up with my ten millimetres. So fuck it, we're going with a fifty mills. Combine that with the hundred mill cannons, and the assortment of dust rounds I like…?

Will need to integrate my sensory seals.

A bowl half my size claps onto the countertop before me. Looks like dry ramen, or something. Smells like beef. Noodley beef goodness. I can live with that.

Wenge looks to me, his gaze soft and warm with the barest hint of a smile on his lips. _My treat_, he mouths.

I nod and grab my chopsticks, twirling the first mouthful about before I suck it in. Definitely beef. Bit on the salty side, but not bad.

"So who's doing the doubles?" Wenge asks.

I chew and swallow. "Not me. I've got shit to do."

"Of course she does." Tiff rolls her eyes and swirls her noodles. "Well, I'm game."

Sigh. Whatever. It's not like I need to worry about stupid shit just now. I've got enough on my plate.

"Em?" Wenge elbows me, no doubt sensing my mood.

"You kiddin'? Ive's got a new toy. There's no way I'm passing up playing with that."

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter One_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: I know, I know. It only took forever to get this chapter done. There were plot holes to contend with, a ship to tweak, and ensuring that everything done in this story is medically sound (which will make sense in time, I promise).  
_**

**_So, yeah. Count on a new chapter per week from here on in, now that I have the bigger issues ironed out. At least for this volume. It's going to be a bit longer than the previous volumes, for reasons that will make sense when you notice. And no, Ivory isn't going to be bothering with the tournament from here on in. So, while the story does sort of stick to cannon, don't count on too much cannon knowledge to help you from this point onwards._**


	13. V3:C2—Bureaucracy

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Three, Chapter Two—Bureaucracy**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

Entering Vale Airport is…tiresome. Sure, it's spacious; between the high glass ceiling and the cavernous hall, you would think there shouldn't be a problem. But. The exact reason I've been constantly putting this shit off, is the never-ending stream of shit-faced asshats with me in their crosshairs.

Reporters or no, I fucking hate that shit.

Life surrounds me. Thousands of footfalls and a thrum of voices echo off white walls. Families are reunited, excitedly shrieking and showing off their welcome signs. Lovers embrace and all but make out. Even the sporadic impressionist art hanging about the place seems drowned out by the sheer idiocy that is the human race. You'd think that means they have better things than stare at me as I make my way to Tower Administration Office.

Two uniformed hunters stand guard beside a narrow-ish archway. Dunno why anyone would go through the hell of becoming a fucking hunter only to stand guard in a fucking airport, but to each their own. After I press my scroll against the scanner, and the customary beeping to show they have no reason to shoot me, I mush along.

This section is, thankfully, less overrun. Not empty, per se, but it has a very different crowd. With the uniformed pilots and cabin crew dotting the cafés as if this is the only place in the airport safe enough for them. To be fair, the security point I had to pass to get here would make it safer—the perks of being a registered pilot, I guess. But still. What the actual fuck. Are the prices better in here, or is it just a camaraderie thing? Not likely. Only the pilots wear identical uniforms, with their black suits. The cabin crew are far more clearly divided—fire engine red, violet, and navy blue being the more common colours of their monochromatic shirt-suits.

Luckily, there's no line to queue in, so I walk right up to the counter. The woman on duty greets me in that usual overly polite way.

I lay out my printed and signed registration form. "You get this a lot, I understand that. But please note my irritation with the assbackwards registration that requires me to be here in person."

The brunette breathes a sign, muted as best she can. The minute rolling of her eyes suggests she shares my irritation, but can't rightly complain for one reason or another. She stamps them one by one as she goes over the forms, and puts the stack in a scanner.

"One military grade Atlas Ayarfiftytwo Hornet, codenamed Starlight, to be registered to one DeWitt, Ivory." Her fingers hammer away at the keyboard as she does whatever the hell has to be done to make it official. "Please note that this registration does not free you from mandatory insurance, competency retesting every five years, or the code of ethics that apply to all pilots, heedless of which kingdom they operate in. Do you understand and acknowledge these terms?"

"I do." I nod. She motions to the scanner once again. When my scroll lies atop it, the usual stats pop up along with my picture. The same smiling me with my long hair.

"That'll be fifteen-hundred Lien, please."

I offer her a card. Once she scans it and withdraws the amount, under ships I'm registered to pilot, Starlight is added. The stack of papers are stapled together, stuffed in an envelope and sealed, and slipped through a slot I didn't notice before in the desk.

"Have a pleasant day, Ms DeWitt."

**_8-8_**

* * *

With a final twist, the bolt comes loose. The last of the pew-pews is finally detached. My foot peddles the crane, lowering the overly heavy piece of shit enough to expose the wiring as I trade spanner for wire cutter.

Soft rock blares in the background, drowning out the clipping and unscrewing even as it abuses my scroll's speakers. No matter how I wish otherwise, my hands are covered in oil and dust—that's going to be murder on my skin.

And yet, as I order the crane to remove the laser, as wheels whinge and moan along steel flooring and fills the cluttered hangar with yet more ruckus, I feel nothing. Not tired, despite it being the middle of the night. Not happy that this will be done by morning. Not proud I got the canons and Gatlings done in record time. Nothing. Skimping on sleep for the third night in a row isn't the healthiest thing in the world, but I can't bring myself to give a rat's ass about that either.

Instead of worrying with that, I unhook the laser and order the crane over to the first of the cannons. Knowing those arrogant fucks, they'll have a mission before long. So this needs to be ready yesterday.

**_8-8_**

* * *

We glide through the air. Vale stretches out beneath us as all of Starlight's sensors paint a wireframe map with every building in my mind. Thousands of little blue dots mark heat signatures; though I can't differentiate between ally and enemy with that, it'll be a piece of cake to identify grimm, since they would be marked as reds. More interesting, to me at least, are the passengers I roped into this.

Even though Starlight flies upside-down and backwards, none of Team WITE falls out of their seat. They're no doubt cursing themselves for agreeing to tag along, but that's on them.

I do another series of backwards barrel rolls, evening us out right-side-up before I spin us to face the theoretical right direction. Pulling my hoodie down, the picture fades as my eyes drink in the dozen screens displaying hundreds of sensors installed to monitor every aspect of my ship. The graphs show hefty spikes in acceleration in play, but nothing above three Gs; well within safety guidelines for Huntsmen, if uncomfortable for civvies.

Satisfied everything works as intended, I click on the PA. "That concludes the aerial acrobatics. It should be a smooth flight from here." An audible whinge and some booing filter in—mostly Tiff. I click off the PA and the 'fasten seatbelt' sign, letting them know I'm not playing.

"Is it my turn?" Em asks, offering me a shit-eating grin.

"Yeah, sure. Go nuts." I take out my scroll and load the monitoring app. One by one, each sensor's history loads, showing how much torque and strain the instruments were put under. Everything from seatbelts to engines to the hull to the safety measures to keep the microwaves from getting utterly fucked.

"Starlight to Vale Tower. Requesting divergence from flight plan. Need a vector to take us north into open waters for weapons testing. Over." Em just has to sound like a kid in a toy store saying that.

Some unfamiliar voice reads out a vector that Em keys into his flight assistant app. The door opens behind us. Heavy footsteps are accompanied by sandals clapping along. Wenge and Tiff are probably tired of being banished to the passenger area.

The sound of buckles clapping about and seatbelts fastening punctuate Em's read-back. They know _someone's_ eager to test what this baby can do.

"So, Ive." Wenge is cut off by Em's accelerating. The smooth flight turns into a rollercoaster, pinning us into our seats as we skyrocket and skewer the clouds. "Ive. I know you've been busy, but Branwen's in Beacon."

"That's nice." I push forward my scroll, trying to see what Em's doing to her. We go from three-hundred kilometres an hour, to roughly eight-hundred in just over ninety seconds. The hull stretches, but not anything outside the safety protocols. The engines purr; louder than usual, but not deafening. None of the equipment shifts too dramatically—or nothing that overwhelms the countermeasures.

Even when Em starts doing all the fun tricks, the Starlight takes it in stride. It's not exactly easy on the fuel intake, obviously. With all the acceleration, deceleration, and course corrections, that's to be expected. Still, nothing so crazy that I'm tempted to stop him.

"He got into a fight with Schnee."

I look over my shoulder at Wenge, and cock an eyebrow.

"The elder sister." Ah, military-Schnee. Well, good on him.

"Did he kick her ass?" I get back to monitoring things; you know, what this flight is really about.

"Don't encourage it!" Tiff sounds annoyed, but it might just be because we're just levelling off from whatever zigzag Em thought would be fun. Then again, she was annoyed when I said we were done. So I'm probably wrong.

"Is there some reason I need to know what a Signal professor is doing?"

Em hits the brakes. Hard. My scroll almost flies outta my hand, but I'm far more interested in how all the seatbelts' sensors bitch about the abuse. Hmm. Will need a different method to handle that—clearly the five-point seatbelts aren't equipped for that much deceleration.

We hover and make a slow turn. Gatlings spin, canons load their first rounds. Ice for both of them, not a bad choice. Starlight's nose dips down as Em manoeuvres us into a nosedive hover. Seatbelts groan as they hold us in place, almost painfully gripping my poor boobs. The deep blue before us is dotted with fuzzy wave tops. Hmm. That's a trick I never tried. Could be interesting.

"What say we try stealth?" Em reaches forward and clicks a button. The engines' hum dips. There's only the soft rush of wind across the hull. But we stay perfectly stationary—if the sensors are properly calibrated, at least. All sensors light up as the chameleon camouflage boots. Dunno how effective it is, but the external camera feeds show Starlight is still pretty visible. Will need to tweak it further—maybe I should add more air powder to the mixture?

Two explosions. Grey streaks down to the ocean surface. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three—deep blue solidifies into a mini glacier. He just literally froze salt water, and enough of it to notice at nine-hundred metres altitude. Fuck yeah.

"Whoo!" Em's enjoying himself at least. Gatlings switch to reg-rounds, and he opens fire on the glaciers he just created. Of course, I can't tell if he hits them. Nor can he, since he switches to fire-rounds to melt the bitch quicker.

It might just be my imagination. But I could almost swear I see red dots on the icy white. But of course, Em needs to 'test' the cannons again. So he switches those to fire-rounds. Two explosions again and red streaks down at the glaciers; the line disappears into the distance until a noticeable puff of red engulfs the poor little glacier. When the light dies down, there's no longer any white to be seen. Melted or exploded, either way is fine.

Neither Gatling shows distress. And the canons don't seem to affect flight path, so that's good. But, it might just be they need some wear and tear to really give me proper data to work with. And with over two-thousand of each dust-round…? "I dunno, Em. Maybe they need to be worn in."

My co-pilot cackles as he drops us out of hover and pulls up into horizontal flight once again, obviously enjoying our early afternoon flight.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"No, really. You ramp up the lower engines and either gear down the upper two, or put them in reverse. It pulls up the nose much quicker." Em keeps bragging about his newfound confidence as we pile up dinner onto our trays. "That's how I flipped us so damn quick. That bird was built for some serious aerobatics."

I chuckle, but don't comment as I grab a helping of risotto. Finally at the end of the line, I grab some bitter cookie pudding—dunno why it's menu, but I love me some bitter cookie. In fact, I grab a second helping, just to be sure.

We make a beeline for our usual table, with Em still gushing about wanting to take the Starlight for another spin, and Tiff encouraging it. She really enjoyed herself, even though she isn't allowed to so much as touch the wheel.

The mess hall is as busy as ever, but this time our fucking table is inundated with nosey little shits all trying to cosy up to us, for some fucking reason. Team FNKI are welcome, for the most part—but those other Atlas asshats can go fuck hot coals, far as I'm concerned.

Holly and Neon gush and carry on about how well they did against their opponents. Coal is mostly pestering us for a refill, after downing whatever drink he already had. When Em pours him some, Neon and Holly are quick to ask for the same—that uptight Kale, of course, is 'too refined' for such base refreshments, and loudly points it out.

"Oh stuff it," Holly gets on his case.

So of course. Noir comes sauntering up to our table, when I'm already not in the fucking mood, and salutes. "Apologies, Lady DeWi'."

I spoon up some grub, cocking an eyebrow at the typical fucking timing of those assbackwards cunts. This is the third time Ironwood bothers me during a meal. And the ninth time I'm summoned when it fucking suits him.

Instead of putting any of that into words, I grab the forty ounce, pop the cap, and poor my team some beer.

"General Ironwood wishes a—"

"You look hungry." I glare at my plate, refusing to so much as look up from my current priority.

Holly and Neon share a look, frowning.

"Yo, Ive. Uh. I dunno—" I look up, silencing Coal with little more than a glance.

Noir, however, looks unbothered by it. "Should I inform the general to expec' you after you've eaten, Lady DeWi'?"

I spoon up another helping, cocking my eyebrow at Noir, wordlessly asking him what he thinks I'm going to say.

Noir's hand reaches for his ear. "Noir to Blue-Two. Inform the general Lady DeWi'll meet with him, over. Roger. Noir out." And so the migraine begins.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The lift door opens, revealing the usual three, Ironwood, Goodwitch, and Ozpin. Professor Branwen is…a new development. Still, I follow Noir into the office and let him get his usual salute in before he fucks off to his little corner.

Branwen smirks at me, upending his little canteen. Dunno what they were talking about, but there's little doubt in my mind it was about me.

"Good evening, Ms DeWitt. Thank you for coming so quickly." Ozpin does the speaking, knowing I'll just mouth off towards Ironowood.

"Is there some reason I'm constantly being summoned?" I ask, hand on hip and most of my weight on one leg.

"There is indeed. You see, Qrow here has confirmed the identities of our…little problem." Ozpin's green eyes are abnormally hard. "They are indeed exactly who you say they are."

No shit. "I assume you want me here for a specific reason."

"I do." Ozpin rights his glasses and looks to Ironwood. "James, if you'd be so kind to explain the plan."

"Ms DeWitt. We have…a proposition for you."

Sigh.

"Hey, Jimmy. I can speak for myself, you know." Branwen twists the cap onto his canteen, looking a little too amused just now. "Ivory. I've got a thing to handle. In Mistral. And word is, you got yourself a cosy little ship."

I blink.

"The job's simple enough. I need you to meet with Haven's headmaster. To see if he isn't in on this little slip in security. While I gather Huntsmen for whatever is gonna go down in Vale."

"I'll also need you to," Ironwood's gaze flickers to Branwen, though I can't tell if that's irritation or curiosity, "pick up a team of Altesian Specialists."

Huh. In other words, you assholes want to see if my bitchy attitude has anything to do with Ironwood. Or you want Branwen to scout me. Or both; probably both. No. No, Goodwitch already knows about that. So that means Ironwood is trying to get into my good graces.

So Atlas finally fucking realised how fucked they are in this fight without the DeWitt archives.

Fuck it. Whatever. "You have an entire fleet at your command. Order one of your lackies to get them." I turn and start walking to the lift. No footsteps follow. "Branwen. You coming?"

"Ivory." Ironwood tries it again. That soft, almost pleading tone. "Please."

"I hear Schnee is in Vale." I press for the lift, grateful when the doors immediately open. "Surely you trust her to fetch your other specialists?"

"You're avoiding Vale," Ironwood tries again, in that same tone. "And this way you can check in on the Bruins. Can't you?"

Branwen enters, so I press for the lobby. The doors close, leaving Ironwood to monologue on his own time.

"You haven't changed a bit," Branwen teases.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"I'm saying that I need to handle this. And I don't want you out of my sight." How many times do I need to clarify this? I mean, fuck! I literally said it. Repeatedly!

And yet, Wenge crosses his arms and cocks his eyebrow. Tiff and Em are both packing their shit, already excited to get out into the world again. But Wenge is being a complete and utter ass, leaning against his desk all like, 'convince me'.

"Look. This thing could take a bit. And seeing as Professor Branwen is asking, and he asked in front of Ozpin? You know this is legit."

Again, Wenge just taps his fingers against his biceps.

Sigh. This is what I get for telling you everything. "Fine. And we'll check on Mr Bee."

Wenge nods and heads over to his closet to start packing. I can only roll my eyes as I fish out my scroll. I text Ironwood—cursing that I bothered to keep his number after all these fucking years.

**Me: "Team outvoted me. How much? Up front, mind you."**

Whatever. I grab my duffle bag and head over to my closet. I grab a full stack of pants, carefully lay them in the main pouch, and plop my shirts beside them. Undies all get stowed next.

Someone's gaze is on me. I look over my shoulder, finding Tiff staring. I cock an eyebrow for her to see. Instead of words, she starts grabbing all her shit and packing them in her bag. Whatever.

When my closet is empty, I move over to my desk and pack my books just the same, including my lapdesk.

"Shit." Em stops counting out his clothes and grabs them by the stack, stuffing them in his duffle bag just like Tiff. "How bad are you thinking, Ive?"

"Fubar," is all I say. No words are offered, but Em carefully peals his posters from the wall over his desk and rolls them up. My scroll vibrates.

"Ivory." Why call? "I'm assigning _him_ to you. He'll have all details. No digital reports."

You've got to be shitting me. They got hacked? "Understood." Fubar, indeed.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Noir stands at attention in front of Starlight, his gaze trained on our bags as we approach. He frowns, no doubt noticing how we each carry an extra bag.

I don't acknowledge him as I pass and activate the ramp. We board—Branwen, Team WITE, and Noir. The passenger cabin looks so much better. The android charging stations replaced by fold-out bunks. My jackboots trample the non-slip violet floor. I clap down the overhead compartment, stow both my duffel bags to sort through later, close it, and head straight for the cockpit.

Flopping into the pilot seat, I stab my scroll onto its perch and load the flight assistant app. A stampede of boots flows in behind me.

"You working on the flight plan?" Em takes his seat already booting Starlight's systems.

"Branwen. We heading straight for Haven Academy?" I zoom out and flick the map south towards Anima.

"Yeah." That means there's more to this than I've been told. Typical, but I'll grill him in the air.

I press Haven and select 'Plop route'. "Should be a six and a half hour flight. ETA puts us at five-hundred hours." A ping announces the app has plausible routes plotted, so I select the direct flight and share it with both Beacon Tower and Haven Tower. I don my headgear and click on the comms. "Starlight to Beacon Tower. Have you received flight plan Hotel Papa Juliet Six Zero Two Three? Over." I click off the comms, just to be safe.

**"Beacon Tower to Starlight. Processing now, Foxtrot. Over."** It's the same guy that helped me land after that grimm infestation. Good to know.

I close the ramp and buckle up. "Em. We're doing this is two shifts. I take the first half, you take the second. Then you can rest up while I deal with—"

"You need the rest. I'll get us there and sleep it off while you play diplomat." Sigh. He's not wrong. Besides, he's at least as capable a pilot.

"Fair. I'll turn in after we leave Valean airspace." The last of the systems boot. Fuel is just over ninety percent; more than enough for this little jaunt, so we won't have to refuel before we get back. Canon rounds is just over seventeen-hundred, Gatlings' over fifteen-thousand. We should be good to go.

**"Beacon Tower to Starlight. Got a slot for you in two minutes, fifteen seconds. Is that enough time? Over."**

I look to Em, getting a nod. Everything is ready on my side as well, so I click on the comms. "Affirmative. Thanks, Beacon Tower. Starlight, over and out."

**_8-8_**

* * *

It's barely a half hour before we're well outside of Valean airspace, so I unbuckle and swivel my chair to face Noir, standing near the door and holding an overhead strap just in case. "We'll start with you. What are we dealing with?"

"General Ironwood suspects our systems have been hacked." No shit. "I'm to report to the council and request a team of hackers to deal with it. Shouldn't be more than five people we need to transport. The mission is to transport and protect our assets, and deliver them to Blue-Two. And yes, I have the four-thousand Lien whenever you desire it."

Should be a low key job. Four-thousand isn't a bad price for that. "Fair. Professor Branwen?"

"We think Leonardo's two-timing us. So I'll be going in solo to round up some backup. I need you to do three things. Only talking and observation."

Hmm. Ozpin and Branwen know I don't trust easily. So they want me to test this Lionheart's true allegiance. "I'm listening."

"How much do you know about international Huntsmen laws and customs?"

Oh fuck me. "How much am I getting paid for this?"

Branwen smirks as he untwists his canteen's cap.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Noir, Wenge, and I walk down the ramp just after sunrise. I'm not sure about Branwen wanting to be airdropped just outside the city, but that's on him. The landing pad is pretty sparse, I guess. Beautiful view of the city, but too dark with the sun hiding behind the mountaintop. And don't get me started on having to land on a patch of fucking grass. Assholes. It'll take me all day to wash down Starlight after this.

Either way, I pull up my hoodie and we make our way up the stairs to Haven Academy courtyard. It's spacious, if crowded with all the students rushing about to get to their first class. Dunno why they get black uniforms, but they stick to the same bullshit skirts for the girls.

We walk up to the main building, away from most of the traffic. Luckily. There's some out of uniform people, look to be professors by my guess. I walk up to the nearest one, a lithe Faunus with canine-looking ears and rusty, scraggly beard. "Good morning. I'm Ivory DeWitt. Representing Beacon Academy. Need an audience with Headmaster Lionheart. Could you point me in the right direction?"

"Ah, of course. I'm Professor Vulpes. Please follow me." The man beckons and leads me up a set of stairs, through a rather spacious hallway to a door at the very end. No nervousness about the man. Curt, polite, amicable. Curious, to be sure, but that's to be expected. He's not an issue. He knocks and opens the door as I pull down my hoodie. "Headmaster Lionheart?"

The secretary eyes us, but doesn't seem overly interested—she goes back to sipping from her mug as she boots her console.

We're shown in after a minute or so. The room is spacious, organized, but not overly so. The lion Faunus sits to his desk, reviewing some paperwork. Puffy mane, reading glasses. Bracer-type weapon on left forearm. Grabs his teacup with right hand—no doubt right-handed.

Lionheart looks up over his half-moon glasses and smiles, warm and it reaches his eyes. "Ah, Lady DeWitt. Welcome to Haven. Please, sit." He motions to the empty chair opposite him. "How do you like your tea?"

I take a seat, knowing Wenge and Noir take my flanks. "Cream and two sugars. Thank you." I smile, warm and disarming, making sure I'm as pleasant as can be. His motions are fluid, graceful, as he pours tea and mixes in the cream and sugar. Not a hint of trouble on the horizon. "Do forgive the unannounced visit. Headmaster Ozpin didn't feel this was a matter to discuss over the phone."

"Of course, of course." He offers the cup and saucer, with a fancy teaspoon. "That Ozpin always did like a certain amount of, shall we say, discretion."

"That he does." I accept the saucer, stirring my tea idly as I sniff it. No known poisons or sedatives; known to me, at least, but I'm not overly familiar with Anima poisons. A hint of chamomile, though. Personal preference? "Mm. Jasmine. It's been so long since."

"Quite right, My Lady. Yes, Odama's jasmine and chamomile blend. Anima grows only the finest teas. We're quite proud of it." Odama is the biggest exporter of fine tea blends in Anima, so it would be a safe bet to use their name. Though I can't claim to see the tin or company crest. So far, so good. Now let's see how long you can hide in propriety, _darling_.

I bring the teacup to my lips but don't make contact or sip. "I'm sure you're a busy man, so forgive me if I cut straight to the matter at hand." He smiles and nods, seemingly appreciating the sentiment. "Headmaster Ozpin sent me to issue a request for a Huntsmen team. Our own Huntsmen are preoccupied with the Vytal Festival security, you see."

"Yeeeeees. Yes, I suppose they would be." He scratches his bearded jawline, his eyes going out of focus. He sips his tea, hiding behind the teacup. "Though I must confess my confusion. General Ironwood is also there, no? With a sizable armada, if the tales are…" His gaze sharpens. "Has…has there been news?"

"Is it," my tone lowers as I murmur as soft as I can confidently say he'll hear, "safe to talk?"

"Of course, my dear." His lips curl down almost imperceptibly. "No place safer in all Anima." The door isn't locked, no button is pressed.

"Headmasters Ozpin and Ironwood have received intelligence." I set my teacup on its saucer, gently clanking it onto Lionheart's desk. He doesn't mimic the motion. Not only that, there's still no move to ensure privacy. "They believe insurgents have infiltrated the Vytal Festival, with intent to sow chaos."

"I see." He sips his tea, his tone weighed down, but still not showing his mouth. Slowly, he lowers the cup, his face carefully held blank. "Yes. That is troubling indeed. I'm afraid most of our Huntsmen are current out on missions." Strike one. International mutual defence pact—he's required by law to aid us as he can, provided it doesn't jeopardize Mistral's safety.

"The request is only for a handful of licensed Huntsmen. Ten at most." Memories of afternoon tea with mum flood my mind as tears well up. "Surely Haven can spare that."

"I'm afraid we can't. With so many of our professors in Vale for the festival, our numbers are at an all-time low." Strike two. The other kingdoms send only students, but he thinks I won't notice, and won't remember it because I'm getting emotional.

"Headmaster, please. Headmaster Ozpin insists we need assistance. The White Fang numbers have surged in recent months. An incident on this scale could…" I look away from him.

Come on, cock nibbler. Take the bait. Try to ignore yet another law.

"Surely Ozpin will have sent a team to Atlas and Shade for back up, my dear. No need to fret. But I'm afraid Haven is understaffed as is."

Yup. He's on the take. So how deep does this bullshit go? Deep enough to actively hinder us? "Could you. Maybe put up the mission? See if anyone is willing? We're not asking them to work for free."

"It'll do little good, I'm afraid. Most don't mind the board during the festival. I would have to make an official announcement. And that might well tip off the enemy." Guilt, writ in blood. "I really am sorry."

"I understand." I stand and bow, not taking my eyes off him. "Thank you for your time. I must get back to Vale, to see what we can do."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more." Genuine regret seeps into his tone, his eyes are weighed down as they dart about. A soft tapping, as if his thumbs drum on the table, though his fingers don't move. "Hmm. Perhaps I could…Yes. I'll call a meeting with a few Huntsmen."

The fuck? "Would you?" I try to keep my tone relieved, instead of the confusion scurrying about my brain.

"Of course. It would take a few days, though. Please. Stay in Haven, as my personal guests. I insist." He picks up his desk phone. "Yes, please arrange one of the students to act as Lady DeWitt's liaison."

"Please. No need to trouble yourself." That's your fucking plan? Keep tabs on me? "My teammate is from Mistral. I'm sure he remembers his way around."

"Then surely he can confirm our hospitality. I assure you, it's no trouble at all."

**_8-8_**

* * *

He noticed my full teacup. There's no other explanation. He knows I'm onto him, and he needs to keep up appearances. Either to keep me here, so he can take me out. Or to keep me away from whatever's brewing in Vale. So what say I report in, and see how this plays out?

As we exit the main entrance, a single student rushes over. An oriental girl, looks to be my age, maybe a little younger, runs up to us waving like a complete maniac.

"Hiya!" She stops close by and doubles over, panting from exertion. "You're. You're Lady Nitwit, right?"

Counter-intelligence? Interesting gambit.

"Min' yer tongue," Noir says, stepping in front of me to play the proper bodyguard. Instead of worrying with what he has to say, or how he'll not so subtly correct her, I fish out my scroll and dial Goodwitch's number.

**"Ms DeWitt?"** The subtle surprise is telling.

"Good morning, Professor. Sorry to call at this early hour." If her hairs aren't standing on end, nothing will tip her off ever again. "I just got out of the meeting with Headmaster Lionheart."

**"I see."** The tell-tale staccato of her heels rings out. She's already heading to Ozpin to report in. **"How did it go?"**

"He said no, at first. After explaining the situation, however, he saw things my way." Wenge offers his elbow to escort me. Quite the gentleman, really. "Though, it may take several days before he can arrange a meeting. He insists I stay here as his guest, even arranged a servant to see to my needs." The brunette stares, jaw hanging low. I carefully swallow the snort. Tit for tat, bitch. It's how the world works.

**"Very well. I'll inform Professor Ozpin. Keep me posted on. Thank you for calling me, Ms DeWitt."**

"Of course, Professor. I'll be in touch." I end the call, stowing my scroll for safekeeping. "Mr Noir. Now seems an excellent time for tea."

"Indeed," Noir says, with an edge to his tone. "With crumpets, I assume?" Oh yeah, barbecue the bitches.

"I, uh." Brunette thinks this is about her. "Know a…nice teahouse?"

"We should get Em and Tiff." Wenge leads the way, completely ignoring the brunette. Didn't catch her name. "It would be improper to exclude them." Makes sense.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Our 'liaison' is outside, still yammering into her phone. Can't pick up a single syllable, but I'm sure Wenge isn't missing a note of it. "She bitching about me?" I nibble at the yummy dango. Never tried it before, but between the chocolate sauce and jumbo sweet dumplings, I won't be complaining.

"Yup." Wenge sips his tea, unbothered by any of this. "Lionheart keeps reminding her about how much she owes him."

"Name's Qi-Niao Lofang. Orphan." Em sips his beer, his back to the door. The smudges under his eyes show he should be in bed, but when we updated him, he wouldn't hear a word of it. "Went to Sanctum with her. Middle child to a farmer. Parents lost their home to a gambling habit, and her dad overdosed not a year later. Everyone accused her of having a sugar daddy. And I don't blame 'em." So that's why he chose her—easy to manipulate someone who's used to it. Lofang bursts into the teahouse's double doors with a beaming smile, like nothing in the world is wrong and nods to the waitress as she makes her way over to us. She obviously knows nothing about how sensitive some Faunus's hearing can be.

"Inbound."

"I dunno." Mischief twinkles in Em's eyes before fading. "I mean, yeah. It's good to be home for a bit. But Vale's much nicer. Hell. Even Atlas is better than being stuck here."

"No matter what path one takes." I nibble at my dango again, subtly eying Lofang as she pulls up a chair and joins us. "Home has a way of finding us." That is how noble types talk, right?

"Maybe." Em sips at his beer again. "Feeling snacky. Where is that waitress?"

"Geisha," Lofang corrects. "Don't embarrass yourself, Mr Neon. Surely Lady DeWitt would look unfavourably on such a thing."

Hmm. Trying to keep up appearances. But will no doubt just be reporting to the head honcho regardless of how it goes down. Maybe trying to wrest her loyalty is the better option?

"Is it my place to tell another how to live their life?" I smile, looking around. I catch the eye of one of the waitresses and she comes rushing over. "Sorry to bother you. Could we have another round of the dango? And…" I look to Em.

"I ain't had breakfast yet. Got something to fill an empty gut?"

"Of course, honoured guest." The woman's stilted wording and heavy makeup reminds me of those old samurai flicks they'd project onto the manor's walls during the long winter nights. It kept people entertained, if nothing else. "Shall I bring a menu?"

"It's quite alright, Miss." Poor Em won't give a flying fuck just now. "He's overtired from a long journey. Perhaps a traditional breakfast will ease his irritation. With some oolong tea, please. Mr Bruin, MrNoir. Would you perhaps want something as well?"

Lofang's eyes shimmer with an emotion. Something I can't quite place.

"I'll have what he's having." Tiff thumbs towards Em.

"Same, but double it for me." Wenge pats his tummy, looking forward to a filling meal. Healthy eater as always.

"Wouldn't mind. Same for me, Miss." Noir nods. "Oh, but only a single order. And be sure to get the same for Lady DeWi'. 'Aving sweets for breakfast ain't no good fer 'er."

"As you say, good sir. And for you, Miss?" The waitress looks to Lofang, whose face flushes as she looks towards the door. Ah, so he keeps her on a short leash by keeping her begging. That's some serious bullshit.

"An order for her as well," I say. "And please don't forget my dango." The waitress does her over-the-top bow thing and flutters away—that's what it looks like at least, with how the hem of her dress keeps flapping to and fro as she walks.

"My…My Lady, I…"

"My treat." I smile, warm and welcoming. The redness fades from her face as she stares off into the distance, traded in for a forced smile.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Hey! Ivory!" Branwen stumbles into the teahouse as I'm finishing with breakfast, looking quite pleased with himself. "Well look at you! Making it all the way to Mistral on a rookie's license."

I roll my eyes. It figures he'd play that so naturally even I can't tell he's lying his ass off.

"Professor Branwen." I nod to him, and the…curious company he keeps. A woman with the biggest rifle I've ever seen and mousy brown hair carrying a little girl, with some brunet keeping stalkerishly close to her. I mean, I could probably fit my entire arm into the barrel. That damn gun looks like it fires asteroids!

There's another two guys trailing along. Some oriental-looking dude with a serious resting bitch face. And some dark-skinned guy with a stupid look on his face, like he's fighting not to laugh at something.

"See, Heather. Told you he knew her. Pay up." The serious-looking one sounds amused.

"Shiro. Shut it. I will shoot you here and now, and my little girl will only cheer me on."

"Uh huh." The little girl confirms it. "Mama's got no patience for stupid dummies like you. So there. Nyuh!" She sticks her tongue out, her eyes lit up with an impish delight. Well, that explains why the dark-skinned guy's struggling not to laugh his ass off.

"How about we all just," I raise my hands, hoping to suss this before the woman really does reach for her weapon, "calm down. Let's all sit down, and have a nice, peaceful cup of tea. While Professor Branwen explains what is going on?"

"That come with booze?" Oh fuck me. How do you assholes expect me to play the dainty waif while you're getting drunk off your asses?

"I won't stop you from buying your own?" He drinks more than Em, Tiff, and me combined. No way in hell is he ordering on my fucking tab!

The group joins us, with the laughing ass all but shoving Lofang aside. They no doubt know she isn't part of my team.

The same waitress comes back, no doubt ready to call security if she gets a funny vibe. "Ah, right on time. We could use a bottle of bourbon. And whatever they're ordering is on his tab." I nod to Branwen.

"Same for us. And something for the tyke." The waitress nods and heads over to the mother-daughter duo to figure that out. "It's like this, Ive. We need a lift. Got a job in Solitas. And word is you got yourself a nice little ship."

Sigh. "Professor. We're trying to—"

"I know, I know. Laying low after all the hype of the festival." Gotta hand it to him. Branwen plays the game well. "Don't tell me you're sore because you favourite professor wasn't there to root for you."

I pluck a stick of dango and nibble at one of the dumplings. "When would you need to leave?"

"Today. And I called Ozpin. So I know you've got nothing to do for a couple o' days."

Hmm. That either means they don't trust Lionheart won't pull a stunt. Or they think this is going down while I'm given the run-around.

"Very well." The waitress comes back with the bottles. "To go, please. And the check."

**_8-8_**

* * *

We're airborne not an hour later, en route to our next destination. Lofang wasn't pleased with essentially having to report that she lost us, but that's her problem.

"Tapping?" Branwen asks. He's been grilling us on Lionheart's performance. Well, he'd know the man better than I ever will. I'm just not sure why the fuck he's in the co-pilot's seat. I mean, sure. Em's snoozing the day away, but still. I don't trust a man drinking straight from a bottle to fly my baby. Fuck that.

"Yeah. I thought he was drumming his fingers, but I could see they weren't moving. And I doubt he was barefoot. So anyway, he keeps saying no in a bunch of different ways, as if I can't tell my ass from my elbow. Then suddenly he just about-faces and tells me he can arrange a meeting, but that it'll take a few days. I figure he's lying his ass off, so I called it in immediately."

"Good call. Had Glynda in a fit. I couldn't tell if she wanted to sing your praises with how you handled it," he takes a long swig and gulps it down, "or chew me and Oz out for letting you go in the first place."

Heh. "Goodwitch can be scary when she's upset."

"Yeah, but I knew you could handle it." Maybe. But I'm glad it didn't get out of hand. "You should've said no to the tea. If you don't trust 'em, don't give 'em a chance."

True.

Clouds float by under us. The thrum of the engines is punctuated by sporadic slushes as Branwen drinks away his troubles. Since everyone but me slept en route to Haven, they're all out cold right now. So mostly, it's just Branwen and me and the whole world dangling beneath our feet.

Sigh. Sad, but it isn't actually that far from the truth.

"Glynda's been complaining about you."

I check he's not drinking just now. "That she didn't make good on the offer to get into my panties?"

He chokes, halfway to a spit take—missing only the liquid he just swallowed. Poor dick has to thump his chest to restart his heart. But he drowns the issue in liquor just the same.

"People are always complaining about something. So you'll have to narrow that down if you want a comment."

"Didn't know you were into older women." He takes another long pull. "But no. It was about you picking up my bad habits."

"Which one? Drinking? Not talking about shit?"

Branwen sighs and upends the bottle again. "We'll need to drop off Heather's tag-alongs. On Patch. Not far from Signal."

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Two_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

_**A/N: Next stop, Atlas. What will Ivory find awaiting her there?  
**_


	14. V3:C3—The Cold

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Three, Chapter Three—The Cold**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Who's supposed to report in?" I ask, glaring at Noir. His pale lips form a thin line, no doubt knowing how this will play out. "You have your orders, Noir. You will report in, and you will keep me the fuck out of it. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, ma'am. But—"

"No buts. If you're given conflicting orders, that's something you need to take up with the asshole that issued them. We leave in seventy-two hours, and not a minute later. Dismissed."

Noir salutes and turns heel, walking down Starlight's ramp and out into the big bad Atlas Airport hangar. The same fucking hangar as last time, if 'mysteriously' missing those crates from last time.

Wenge comes to me, questions in his eyes and a cocked eyebrow.

"He was supposed to escort me to the council." Sure, Noir argued that his primary mission is to be my bodyguard, and his secondary mission is to report to the council. But, realistically, that means he needs me to come with him to the council. Which translates to the same fucking thing.

"Anyway. I called ma. She's already baking a cake."

**_8-8_**

* * *

The upper city of Atlas. It's as stuffy and haughty as I remember. The chill is comforting, though.

We make our way through the busy streets, ignoring the zealous glances and the not so subtle whispers of 'Lady DeWitt'. Instead of worrying with them, we make our way to the taxi zone near the upper city's outer band. Snowfall melts as it touches the 'warm' streets, the gentle deluge pouring into the grates dotting the landscape.

Wenge and I board the shuttle, with Tiff and Em but a step behind us. I pay neither much mind as they slump into the comfortable leather couch.

"To DeWitt manor." Sigh. You had to face this eventually, Ivory. You know that.

"You okay?" Em asks, his bright violet eyes on me.

I sit, my back facing where we're meant to go as the shuttle lifts off and carries us into the lower city…into Mantle. My legs cross at the ankles as I watch the bright lights and hope of Atlas fade into the drear that is my hell.

"Everything you think you know is about to be called into question," I give them their only warning. Tiff and Em, their gazes never wander from me. "If you can't handle that. Go back to Atlas."

"Your old stomping grounds." Em doesn't ask, but I nod all the same.

"Down here, you do as I say when I say it. No matter how little sense it makes. Blink, and I can't guarantee your safety."

Tiff shivers, not from the cold either. I thought so.

"It's alright, Ive." Em nudges Tiff with his elbow, trying to kickstart her brain. "You handle your business. I'll take her back to the ship."

I nod. "Driver. I've changed my mind. To Atlas Airport." I grab Wenge and phase us through the floor, into a free-dive half a kilometre up.

Looks like we'll make landfall in the old market, not far from Neon's stand. The surrounding buildings are all bland, lifeless save the metres-tall viewscreens playing the usual propaganda bullshit Atlas likes to shove down our throats.

**"The new schoolyear starts in just two days. Is your child's future secure? Sign up to Atlas Academy now, and provide not just for your family, but the kingdom as well." **

I slam into the ground, making a three-point landing with Wenge on my six. The usual patrol bots spot us, no doubt already coming to survey the commotion. Noisy little pests that they are, they flash off a dozen pictures of Wenge and I as we dust ourselves off and get lost in the hubbub of the market.

**_8-8_**

* * *

It's raining by the time we make it to my old neighbourhood. No doubt hail melted by the steam vents meant to stave off the chill. I pull my jacket tighter around me, hands hidden in pockets.

Foot traffic is lighter than I remember. Likely from the weather. The scene paints across my mind, dozens of familiar heat signatures, Faunus and Human alike, but none that I care enough about to piss on just now. They hide in their little coves, under archways, eyes ever on us as we make our way.

The first pit hits my hood. We've left the safety of the steam vents, no doubt, and the unmelted hail assaults us, unrelenting as ever. My breath presses through my scarf, the moisture condensing and freezing against it.

Foottraffic all but dries up here. The least 'secure' part of Mantle. The old Royal district.

Stone archways, once manned by DeWitt honour guards, stand covered in frost and icicles. The old botanical garden looms in the distance, its glass plating shattered and letting in the bitter frost. It's a ghost town, worse than…it doesn't matter.

I approach the old gatehouse, grab Wenge's arm, and phase us right through the rusty gate.

Inside, the weather is completely different. Sunshine beams down on us, a light drizzle feeds the overgrown meditation garden. Steam wafts up from the little pond I learned to swim in.

But the manor itself? The burnt husk of the top floor long-since collapsed, leaving the second and ground floors open to the elements. All that really remains standing is the stone archway still holding solid wooden doors my great-grandfather ordered installed the day after his coronation; the scene of the 'humble' Thaddeus Michel DeWitt II being crowned by the god of light himself remains untouched.

My trembling hand reaches out, grabs the knocker and slams it against the golden bell to announce it's now open migraine season. The pure B-flat note fills the air as the front doors groan open.

The stench that welcomes me is surely a sign of things to come. Or maybe it's the skeletons strewn about, still wearing their Atlas military uniforms, gouged with holes where they were shot on patrol.

I walk up to the first. I don't even have to check the dog-tags to know who it is. The rifle, the way she holds the trigger even in death, barrel still trained on the Atlas AceOps corpses she gunned down in her death throes. "Hey, Jade. Sorry I took so long." I take her finger off the trigger, her bones falling apart at last as I lay her custom assault rifle at her side. "At ease. I'll take it from here."

**_8-8_**

* * *

I drag out the last of the bleached bones out into the meditation garden, carefully arranging them among his remains. Closing the crate, I lay Desmond's pistol atop it, beside his dog-tags, and set the crate among the fifteen others, carefully arranged in their usual line-up, if one man short, with _that man_'s crate turned to one side as if pacing before them, per the norm.

Wenge sits by the gate, his gaze ever on me. Thus far, he's respected my wishes to deal with this myself. Will that last?

"Please enjoy the sunlight a little. Just until I open the family crypt." I flick off the speck of dust that dared cling to Desmond. He never did like even the tiniest speck on his things, after all.

I walk back through the front door, the scene is just as bad as I left it. The blood-stained floor, the holes in the rotten carpets and curtains. The bones of fallen enemies, still filled with the bullets of my people that felled them. The grenades that shattered doors and windows. It's a battlefield…and the battle lingers even now.

My jackboots clap down the unpolished marble, crunching tinted glass underfoot as I make my way into the old kitchens. All I grab is the old soup pot, callously splashing about the fire powder mostly dissolved into rubbing alcohol as I drag it about. In every corner of ever room, I grab the ladle and pour out the mixture.

I drag the pot up the stairs, letting the mixture stain everything it touches. Down the hall and into the old library. I douse the ancient tomes, one by one. Everything from the nursery rhymes mum read me as a child, to the 'unwritten' histories of Mantle and the continent of Solitas. Every last fucking page is doused.

Mum's old laboratory, her research notes, the beakers she'd left out the night they came. Everything gets a ladleful.

Even my old nursery. The cradle that rocked every DeWitt to sleep since times immemorial. The dolls I used to play with. The miniatures of the royal courts mum used to teach me every member's name and role. The lacy curtains stained with dust and grime from lack of care.

All of it.

When I'm satisfied nothing will survive passed today, I leave the old soup pot where it lies, ladle and all, and I make my way out the front, leaving the door open for the first time in its long history.

I wash my hands in the sacred waters, a prayer to purify my honour sent heavenward as I cleanse myself. "May the sacred flames of war purify this hallowed place. May tongues of fire lick at these enemies mine and lash the descendants of all those who wronged the House of DeWitt." I stand, taking out my Moon, and fire a sole burn round into the trail.

The explosion is slight, not nearly as loud as that night. Screams of the servants crying out as they flee, the staccato of gunfire as old friends announce they're new foes. The archway is bathed in bright red light as the promise I'd made all those years ago announces itself to Mantle, to Atlas above.

It isn't long before fire roars, sending plumes of dark orange smoke wafting up to the enemies that made the fatal mistake of letting me live. Warning them that I haven't forgotten, that I'll never forget.

Even the rain, try as it might to douse the scene, only spreads the oils and the inferno with it.

I nod, satisfied the message is delivered.

**_8-8_**

* * *

They'are already waiting for me as Wenge and I exit DeWitt Manor. Hidden as carefully as they were trained among the rooftops, seeking the moment I drop my guard.

Atlas's AceOps. Five of them. The best of the fucking best. The nearest to me bears a four-leaf clover on his chest and a lucky rabbit's foot hangs from his belt, arms left bare. He's used to the horrid weather, given how much of naked flesh is left exposed to the elements.

I walk ahead, staring the obvious leader down even as I beckon for him to try it. The wire-frame rendering of him smirks, but the one with a wolf's tail sneers just as readily.

Arms try to grab my jackboots. A clap of boots behind me, the hare Faunus comes. Fast. Speed type, huh? I let her phase through me as I step out of the hands' grip and kick out her leg for her trouble. She goes tumbling ahead, slamming into someone's front door and into their home. I beckon to the leader again, daring him to try it.

The leader touches his ear, the hands suddenly back off as the leader himself jumps down. His beaming smile might disarm the average fuckwit, but I'm no tourist. "Lady DeWitt, I presume."

"Ace-Op leader." I glare. No smile, no sneer, no emotion. Just a challenge I'm daring him to accept. "Let me guess. They call you Alpha."

"Clover, actually. Clover Ebi." His smile wanes to show he's all business. "You mind telling me why you're torching your ancestral home?"

I walk right along, uncaring what he and his band of merry fuckwits makes of any of this. He'll bring the news to the intended audience, I'm sure.

"I'm afrai—"

I grab the little shit's hand by the wrist, before he touches me. "No warrant? No touch."

"W—"

I draw Moon, pointing her right at his nose. Safety disengages. "Show. Me. The warrant."

Curtains pull, a dozen potential witnesses all come to spy what's going on. Lips flap about, calls being made, videos recorded on scrolls showing some 'unknown' pointing a gun at an Ace-Ops' face.

"Arson, caught in the act." He tries to act tough. Technically, the law is on his side. But he forgets something important. "I need no warrant to bring you in, Lady DeWitt."

"Then arrest me." Lights flash red, warning sirens blare. The Grimm approaches. His primary duty now is to safeguard the people of Mantle. But his current problem is trying to reign me in. There isn't a soul in this neighbourhood that doesn't know only a DeWitt could ever get in. Only a DeWitt could start the fire. And therefore the last DeWitt stands before them, being threatened by Atlas Ace-Ops.

Anger that our heritage is being disrespected. Fear that they'll be rounded up for questioning. Resentment that the last symbol of Mantle's glory days is treated this way. It matter not. It all brings the Grimm.

"Go on, Ace-Op Leader. Draw your weapon, and try to arrest me."

The androids, those Aykay trash-heaps, rush passed, heading down the way to deal with the predictable Grimm swarming another weakpoint in the supposed wall meant to 'keep Mantle safe'.

Five years I've been gone, but not a fucking thing changed.

Sabyrs toss the pathetic 'knights' about like dolls, laying waste to Atlas's 'superior' tech. A pack of them spot us, let loose a growl to show they hunger for our bones. But I'm still here, gun in some self-entitled shit-stain's face, daring him to make a move.

"Tch. Fine." Ace-Op Leader fuck-face grabs a fishing pole from over his shoulder and kindly prances along like the toy soldier he is, chasing the sabyrs while Wenge and I simply walk away.

I do make sure to put a round in the asshole sabyr that tries to sneak into the home the hare Faunus unwittingly broke into. Whether that saved the cunt of an Ace-Op is coincidental, it's the Mantellian family within I saved.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Lt Usagi stands at attention outside the door, licking up the carrot cake crumbs from his lips and fingers and uniform as Wenge and I approach. Usagi salutes, still licking at the crumbs without a care—he knows we don't give a fuck about that.

The door opens and an eager little wolf pounces on me, flooring me as she snuggles up without a care in the world. Instead of helping, Wenge chuckles and grabs me by the jackboot, dragging me indoors. I glare at Usagi, but his pale face merely turns bright red—dying to laugh his ass of as I'm carted off.

The family room fills with laughter as we enter. Tawny decides she wants in on all the fun and helps Sage to dogpile me, happy little squeals fills my world as Sage and Tawny make themselves right at home atop me.

"Girls, that's no way to greet her." Mrs Bruin tries to act stern, but the quiver in her voice and the way she bites her lip hint at her struggle to not laugh. "Come, come. Up. You can snuggle at the table."

Sage shakes her head, no, obviously liking where she is just now. Tawny's cold little nose rubs against me neck as she mimicks her partner in crime. Sigh.

Wenge picks the lot of us up and dumps us in an armchair, no doubt figuring the other seats won't hold our combined weight just now, and shunts the armchair to the table. He slumps down beside me and offers me a beer—a peace-offering for not helping.

It can't be helped. So I take the beer and clink the neck against his in silent cheers.

"You stink." Even as Sage complains, she doesn't shy away.

"Ivy needs a shower," Tawny agrees. Sigh.

"That would involve getting off me." Both girls shake their heads, refusing to even think about it. They don't even mind taking turns to feed me little bits of cake between my sips of beer—not the best tasting combination.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Ivy, baby." Sigh. Mrs Bruin is about to start some shit, isn't she. "I need to get a few things from the market. I need a tag-along."

Fucking figures. I grab Sun and Moon and Foxtrot on my way to the door, before grabbing my winter coat.

"Be good," Sage murmurs, having successfully snuck up on me before giving me a kiss before helping me into my winter gear and letting me and Mrs Bee out the door. Sgt Katt is on watch this time, nodding to Mrs Bee and I as we make our way down the stairs and out into the street.

The drear isn't any different, nor is the crowd. A thrum of muttering, respectful nods my way in a sea of heads. I nod right back, slipping Moon into my hand to show them I'm on the clock.

"IVY!" Mrs Katt flattens me before we even make it to her stand, rubbing her cheek against mine, not minding we're both in the dirt. Sigh.

"Yeah, yeah. Neon warned me already." All I get is purring from the all too happy Faunus still rubbing her head against me. "Oy. Come off it, Mrs Kay. I'm on the clock here."

The hell is it with Faunus and jumping me these days.

"Alright, Sugar." Another familiar voice hoists Mrs Katt up off me, and offers a hand up. "There's a mug I ain't seen in a shake."

Robyn Hill smiles, her silver hair up in her usual ponytail with her index finger lay bare in her black glove. I take her hand, and she gets me up on my feet. "Been a while, Hill."

"I was 'bout to say the same. Didn't think the skies would let you play in the dirt."

I snort—like those elites control me. "Didn't pay the clouds much mind. You?"

"Out here trying to change the beat. You know the score will always be the same otherwise." Yeah, same shit, different day. But the only way to change that is…?

"You? On the council?" That makes no sense. No Mantellian ever gets in, even with Mantle having six times more votes than any Atlas asshat.

"Psh, like you're gonna do it?" She cocks her brow, honestly curious.

"True. Walk with me, I'll let you pre—" Mrs Katt jumps me again, whinging about something that I don't bother decode. You'd swear she and Neon are related somehow. "I'll let you preach."

So we walk. Down the usual dust-riddled streets towards the old market. Mrs Bee humming to hide the shit-eating grin, and Hill giving me her practiced lines about how she wants to change the system, how Ironwood's been way out of line, how Mantle always gets the raw deal, and it's time for a revolution.

"Who you up against?" I ask, honestly curious. I've never gotten into politics, not anywhere, but I know enough to know it's always some Atlas fuckwad that's out buying loyalty to get their ass in a cushy chair.

"Jacques Schnee."

"You got my vote." I raise my gunhand and give her a side fist-bump.

"Actually. I have something else in mind. Like it or don't, DeWitt. You carry a big stick, and I need a solid batter in my corner." The DeWitt name—it's all anyone knows or cares about.

We make it down to the market, with the usual goings-on. Thieves looking for an easy mark. Nancies batting their lashes at every would-be sugar daddy. Gangbangers sitting on the corner looking for a buyer. Shotcallers in their 'cafés', eyeing every unfamiliar face as they pass their window pane.

It's Mantle at its worst, but not any worse than usual.

"I gotchu. But I'm gunning for equal respects for Faunus, across the board." Mrs Bee and Mrs Kay are all smiles, loving the sound of that.

"Of course. All sons of the soil."

I holster Moon and offer Hill my hand. She's quick to take it and we sling our free arm around each other plain view of the streets. "Alright, Hill. I got your back. Run your race, and lemme know when a curveball comes your way." I fish out my scroll and offer it to her. She inputs her digits, smiling all the while. I send her a message, hearing her scroll beep loud and clear, as does everyone around us. "Keep it under your hat, but I roll with the mugs you need. The tales you hear ain't the whole."

"For real?" Hill gives me a look like I'm an idiot.

"You need a batter? I swing for the fence. I'll call you before I head out." Besides. If she's on the council, I'll have a paddle when up shit's creek.

"A'right." She isn't convinced, but she knows my rep. I don't bullshit when I'm in someone's corner.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The shuttle door opens up into Atlas. Noir is standing there, frown more than obvious. "What? Now you can honestly say you didn't know." Noir shakes his head and motions me out of the shuttle.

Hill and Wenge come out with me, following along as we make our way through the bright and clean streets of cloud town.

"Robyn Hill, Lt Sgt Noir. Noir, the up and coming Council member."

"For real? You runnin' agains' Schnee?" Noir gives Hill an approving once-over. "Shi', you got my ballot." Every vote counts, as they say.

"Appreciate it." Hill nods and smiles.

We make way down to the airport, and load up into Starlight. I introduce Hill to Em and Tiff, explaining they're registered in Vale, so save her preaching. But that just makes her even more curious as I call into the tower for a circuit around Atlas.

As we lift off, I fish out my scroll and dial Ironwood.

**"Ivory."** Hill's eyes go wide as dinner plates. **"I thought I told you—"**

"General Ironwood. Got your up and coming migraine in my cockpit. Mind your manners and I'll introduce you."

Ironwood sighs, shaking his head. **"In Atlas less than a day, and already has her nose in politics. I assume you refer to Robyn Hill, running against Jacques Schnee."**

I shoo Em, letting Hill take the co-pilot's seat.

"You know I don't want Schnee there. And neither do you. So how about we play open hands for a hot second, and you both listen to what I have to say."

The feed shakes as Ironwood dismisses whoever he was talking to when I interrupted. **"You get sixty seconds."**

"You back Hill, and she becomes my migraine not yours." Hill's chin snaps to me, her jaw low. "I get a fair budget, I handle Mantle. My way. That means security is my issue, not yours. In exchange, you keep the rest of the council off my ass and outta Hill's hair while we calm things down. That means no propaganda on our streets. And unionizing every workplace."

**"And those unions would be your issue?"** Ironwood isn't convinced he's meant to like this.

"Hill's issue. They take their grievances to her, as council member. I start up a company to keep the worst of the worst on their best behaviour."

**"Hmm. So you'll have Mantle labour developing for the military?" **

I nod.

**"So it was a councilman then." **

I cock an eyebrow.

**"Clover's reports are always precise. And the Ace-Ops report only to me."**

"Yes or no, Ironwood."

**"You said open cards, Ivory. That means all cards."**

"Yes. Two of them and that corpse Dr Watts. The message was meant for them. So let them hear it loud and clear."

**"I thought so. Very well, Ivory. We have a deal. I expect you in Vale by sundown. Ms hill. You can expect a call when I get back to Atlas. There are protocols you'll need to be intimately familiar with. And you'll need at least two soldiers stationed with you at all times. They'll report directly to me, but it will show Atlas what you need them to see. Ironwood, out."** My scroll goes back to a picture of Wenge, Tawny, Sage, and me taking a nap around Mr Bruin. Mrs Bruin's doing, no doubt.

_**8-8**_

_**End Chapter Three**_

_**8-8**_

* * *

_**A/N: A bit on the short side, but I put a lot into it. With a glimpse into Atlas with Volume 7 finally trickling out, I've had been able to get in some insights into Atlas and Mantle without having to head-canon my way through it. But this should set the stage nicely for things to come.  
**_

_**Let me know what you guys think. And no, the story isn't changing regardless of the whatever Rooster Teeth make canon now. This is set in stone, but I want to keep the world as true to canon as I can while really bringing things to life.**_


	15. V3:C4—A very different game

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Three, Chapter Four—A very different game**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Nah, Em. I need you to take the wheel. I have a thing." My co-pilot doesn't even think about it, he just jumps into the pilot seat and opens the channel to Atlas tower. "Noir. You're with me." I beckon to my shadow and lead him passed the mostly full passengers' cabin, down into the 'kitchen'.

I open my closet and make a gimme motion. "Lady DeWi'?"

"I plan on pissing off some heavy hitters. If you roll with me, that standard issue bullshit won't cut it." I take out a backpack—one with a rifle like Foxtrot, a pistol like Moon, and all the fun stuff that Ironwood would kill to get his hands on. I hand it to Noir, taking his gear and stowing it for him. "Good. Em needs a co-pilot. I've got something I need to make."

"You really doin' ih?"

"Hmm?"

"Goin' after…?"

They should have killed me, had every opportunity handed to them. "Could you live with yourself if you didn't?"

"You're alive. Tha's all I care for."

Such simple words. But the warmth in his eyes, the little smile that somehow survived these long years, survived that night. He means it with all his heart.

"I can't do that." I shake my head. No emotion punctuates the familiar words. No tears come, not even a drop. The physical wounds might have healed, but…

"Nothing'll bring 'Er Grace back."

"No. It won't." But it will save the next little girl, keep her family alive. Keep my family alive. "Do you remember my lessons?"

Noir stands there. By my guess, he's cocking an eyebrow.

I unsheathe Sun. "Do you remember my lessons?"

"Lady De—"

Fist balls around Sun's grip, tighter than my chest. "I will not lose…" Never again. Never. "Do you or don't you."

His lips form a thin line. Instead of answering, he wraps himself in his aura—it's faint, lilke en echo travelling a long distance. His aura is…barely there. A candle beside a bonfire.

"You will train as I train or you will request reassignment. Do I make myself clear?"

Noir draws his sword and drops to one knee, head bowed. Sword tip taps the metal beast we find ourselves in as both his hands rest on the pommel. "I swore to 'Er Grace, as I swear to you. My ligh' will no' flicker before yours."

"Stand, Noir. I will not have…" I swallow the frog in my throat. "Never. Kneel like that again."

**_8-8_**

* * *

_I throw my catheter bag at the…that…thing. Piss covers every inch of him, but Ironwood doesn't even flinch, not even from the red spot on his forehead where my mug shattered against him and cut him. The wound healed quickly, but the trickle of blood's another matter._

_"You'll protect me?" My fists ball so tight that my fingernails cut into tender flesh. "Like you protected my mother, no doubt. I never want to see you. Your men. Or anything of Atlas again. Do you hear me?"_

_"Lady DeWitt, please calm down. You're in no condition to—"_

_"Leave!" My heart monitor spikes, sending the penguin brigade aflutter as they storm in and order the man out._

_Another nods, an Atlesian soldier on the face of it, following the general out._

_I reach for him, the world growing dark. "Pietro."_

_"PIETRO!" Explosions. Gunfire. My home is wreathed in smoke as shards of glass rain down on me. I drag myself by my hands, my legs…_

_I can't feel my legs._

_"I've go' you." Arms grab me not minding the glass cutting into me or him, hoist me up and cradle me against his chest, just like he used to. "Jade!"_

_"Pietro! Get her out and don't look back! We'll cover you!" More explosions. My ears ring as I clutch whatever part of Pietro I can. "Desmond! You and me! We've got betties aching for a good rogering."_

**_8-8_**

* * *

I jerk up. The passenger's cabin is dark, quiet. He's at my side before my eyes even adjust.

"Jus' a dream, ma'am." Noir sits to my bedside, taking my hands into his to console me best he can. "Jus' a dream. You're safe."

Safe?

Starlight's engines thrum in the background, almost muted beside my heartbeat thrashing in my skull.

"Shh. It's alrigh'. I'm 'ere." Noir's hand cups my cheek, thumbing away my tears. "I'll ge' you a cuppa."

He turns to stand, to leave.

"Stay."

He freezes as my hands grip his bicep and tug him back.

"Please."

He pats my hand. "Be righ'—"

"Please." I grip his armour tighter. Tight enough.

Noir nods, his smile soft as he murmurs, "Alrigh'. Ge' some res'."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Em brings us in, landing right in Blue Two's hangar, per our orders. We disembark, the lot of us, with Ironwood himself awaiting us.

"You're here. Good. You five will report to the bridge immediately." Ironwood dishes out orders, and the five Atlesian hackers salute before fucking off. "Qrow. Ozpin will want to address your team."

"Yeah, yeah." Professor Branwen thumbs to Heather's tag-alongs. "Just need to bring the brat some place safe. It isn't in me to upset a lady."

"It's alright, Professor," I say, standing at attention with Noir at my flank. "I'll bring them to Professor Xiao Long. He no doubt knows this location you mean."

"Heather, you good with that?" Branwen asks. He really doesn't want to be on the itchy trigger-finger's shitlist.

Heather Shields turns to me, her gaze piercing right through me as she beckons to her baby. The little girl all but flies into her mommy's arms. "You be good for daddy, okay?"

"I will." Mother and daughter hug, their bond, their love, as obvious as midday sun. "Hurry back, 'kay? Daddy's been teaching me ta bake. So I'mma make your favourite!"

"Ooh. Liking the sound of that." The little girl pulls back, giving Shields her brightest smile. "Keep an eye on the old man for me?"

"Hey!"

"Promise!" The duo giggle, obviously enjoying getting under the man's skin just now.

"Ivory." Ironwood seems to want my attention just now, stopping just outside my personal bubble and keeping his voice down. "We have a problem."

Sigh.

"Report to my office when you get back."

**_8-8_**

* * *

We touchdown on Blue Two once again after an uninteresting trip to Signal. Noir and I walk down Starlight's ramp, ignoring the usual Atlas yuppies as they repair two dinged up dropships.

Noir leads the way deeper into the floating citadel, through the maze of metallic white corridors jogging troops. We eventually arrive at some secretary's desk, but this is no office woman—not with the obvious collapsed rifle holstered on her back.

"Lt Sgt Noir, escorting Lady DeWi' to see the general." The woman nods and buzzes motions us in.

As we enter, despot-Schnee's bellyaching assaults my ears. "…of control. She needs a firm hand to guide her, James. And you're not the man to do it."

"A firm hand is exactly what got us in this mess. My appointment just walked in." Ironwood ends the call, motioning for me to have a seat. Not missing a beat, he stands and walks over to a little kitchenette. "Can I get you something to drink, Ivory?"

"Brandy." It is Ironwood's favourite—but more importantly, he never keeps bourbon.

Ironwood grabs three lowball glasses and chucks some ice into them, bringing them and a bottle of brandy to his desk, once again motioning for me to sit. "The situation is this. The Council is up in arms with the loss of DeWitt manor. They claim it's because of…"

Ironwood trails off as I fish out something from my hip pouch. A little jingling bag is set on his desk as I ease myself into the cushioned swivel chair opposite him. "Dogtags of the intruders that died that day. Both dogtags. Ace-Ops." Ironwood's eyes widen. "I also have their rifles and scrolls, but their uniforms and bones are dust."

The arrogant fucks didn't even take our guards' serious enough to think 'the best' would be taken out by them, to a man.

"If the Council gives you any shit, I'll suddenly develop trauma induced amnesia. I'm sure even Atlas's best doctors will agree it's at least plausible."

Ironwood smiles, actually smiles, as he pours both drinks and pushes one over to me. "Lieutenant?" When my shadow nods, Ironwood pours the third glass and offers it to Noir. "Iris taught you the old tales."

Taught me to read from the unwritten histories. "Is that important?"

Ironwood presses a button, getting the secretary on the line. "I will not be disturbed."

"Understood, General." The woman salutes as Ironwood presses another button. The door clicks, locking. Another loud beep from the intercom, it tapers off, clearly shutting down.

"You know of Salem?"

"I do."

"Good. Professor Ozpin is the man of many lives of the tale."

Fuck. Oswalt Theodore DeWitt I. The founding king of Mantle. He really was my ancestor in another life.

"The Council doesn't know about the hidden library, or if they do, they're especially secretive in searching for it, and in all the wrong places."

Sigh. Mum always did think too highly of Ironwood. "Watts. His death was confirmed?"

"No. The blast incinerated the entire facility." Ironwood sips, a dark cloud handing over him. It must have been gruesome what he found. "The bodies were little more than ash."

"And his involvement in the code currently under suspicion?"

Ironwood's eyes widen. He upends his glass, obviously needing something to help swallow that plausibility down.

But more interesting still…the library can only be accessed by a DeWitt, can only be read by one. That means they indeed intended to wipe us out, given…Ozpin's untrusting nature. "He prepares for his next reincarnation?"

Ironwood refills his glass, his gaze mournful. "Ozpin doesn't look it, but he is in his seventies. I've suspected for some time that Salem hopes to use the gap between incarnations to strike hard and fast."

Yes, that does fit the descriptions of her. "Then your fleet being here is predicted, and is meant to be used against Vale to cause a rift."

"That's why I needed the team. If they risk exposing Lionheart, they will make this their opening gambit for out-and-out war. I'm leaving nothing to chance in this. Especially not you, Ivory. If we lose access to the library, Oz loses everything in there."

I drown a sigh in brandy.

"I'm not going to order you to get pregnant, Ivory."

"Just helpful suggestions who might make an excellent father?" I cock an eyebrow.

"A sperm donor perhaps, but that seems fair game." Ironwood chuckles as he refills my glass. "No. The only orders I have for now are to start training a team sooner rather than later. And rebuilding DeWitt manor into a self-sustaining stronghold."

My lowball glass swirls about, mixing brandy and ice. "You ordered the Bruins to take me in."

"Made it easy, perhaps. Serge wouldn't hear of any other option. The day he heard the news, he stormed into my office, hospitalizing two of my elite guards before I stepped in." Ironwood takes a long pull. "He didn't calm down until I told him you survived."

Hmm. That does sound like him, stubborn as he is.

"Iris had…a way with people. An old-world charm that could bewitch even the stoutest of hearts."

I nod, downing the last of my glass and holding it out for more.

"A talent you inherited." He refills me again, and Noir as well.

"I'm too much my father's daughter." It's why we never got along, at least according to mum.

"Gion was obstinate."

I snort, upending my glass. "He was bull-headed. And a complete sadist during training."

"Of course he had high expectations of his only child." Ironwood refills me once again. "But he wouldn't stop bragging about you. Your focus, your dedication, your keen mind for strategy."

Sigh.

"He wasn't in the least surprised how quickly you rose to the top of your class."

I snort, disgusted, and down my glass again. "More like he'd train me into the ground if anyone did better in anything." I hold out my empty glass, sloshing the ice about as I put on a stern face and deepen my tone. "You let a Kale best you in material science? Iriiiiiiiiiiiis!" I slam my glass on the table. "Get the books out!"

Noir chuckles. Not that Ironwood is doing any better.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Starlight's printer whirrs, processing the fifteen-hundred grams of iron and titanium Noir's new blade will need. The console displays an animation of the exact movements the whip-sword can make. It's not an exact replica of mine—he wanted something longer and with more bite. Where Sun's blade edges are smooth, Viper's are serrated. It comes with the same bay for crystalline dust upgrades, and another for single-powder cartridges; there just isn't space enough for more, not without making the grip bulky and messing up the centre of balance, so the cartridge bay just makes sense. Blade reels it in, sheathes, and shifts into its rifle form. Good.

He also wanted a bit more kick, so he's getting sixty mille rounds, with single-round, three-burst, and fully-auto fire. The printer also has fifteen high-capacity magazines loaded—thirty rounds per magazine should be enough for a sniper, right? Then again, knowing him he'll just use it as a DMR. Better up it to sixty, no one-twenty…maybe make it a drum mag? Sigh. You just can't please some people.

I elbow Noir and nod to the screen for approval. His face splits into a grin, his eyes lit up like it's Christmas time. Sigh. Ass.

One final button presses, and the data sends to the printer.

"You're gonna need a lot of time at the range. I want at least ninety-five percent accuracy with all three before you even start on snake-sword dances."

"Can I get a twin for my pistol?"

I cock an eyebrow. He grins even wider. I sigh but that quickly devolves into a drawn out groan.

"Fine. Get me another kilo of titanium, carbon fibre number nine, and spring steel. A hard-light crystal just bigger than this." I unsheathe Sun and open her bay so he can see what I mean. "A few thousand cartridge shells of each calibre you'll work with. Whatever powdered dust you want to work with. And you'd damn well better get me something nice."

He beams and kindly fucks off. Sigh. I wanted to upgrade Sun.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Em turns this way and contorts that way, testing his knew full-body armour. Since they know things are about to go toe-up, Team WITE figures Noir's got the right idea, and started lambasting me with requests for new gear. They're not wrong, but for fuck's sake, I still haven't upgraded Sun!

Wenge raps his fists against his lightweight titanium breastplate, the solid 'tok tok tok' ringing through the passenger cabin. It's eight millimetres thick in most places, more than double the standard—hell even Noir's standard issue Atlasian soldier armour is only four in the thickest place; to save on materials for mass-production, being my guess.

The boys look ready for war, just the way I like them. The kitchen door opens, and Tiff walks out, wearing an Iron Maiden battle dress. The back and sides are of the same light-weight alloy as Em and Wenge's armour, but leaving an almost open flap from the navel down to maximize flexibility. Running in a fucking wrap-around dress is complete bullshit, so this is a middle-ground that should work well. Though her electric blue titanium-silk weave trousers should offer her some decent protection as well. Not to mention the proper cuirass protecting her torso. Arm guards, paldrons, electric blue titanium-silk gloves. She looks ready to rumble.

Tiff sighs. "I can't believe you're going to Atlas."

"After graduation," I remind her. Sure, Ironwood wouldn't complain if I move there tomorrow, but I'm staying right here. For now at least.

Noir keeps shifting his new Viper from sheathed-form to rifle form and back, cackling with glee every single fucking time.

A knock on the cabin door, form the outside. I fish out my scroll and load the minicam app. Goodwitch stands on the ramp and waves, knowing full-well I'm checking who it is. Why is Nikos with her?

I press the button and the door slides open. "Professor?"

"Ms DeWitt. Could I have a word?" Green eyes peer over my shoulder at Team WITE. "Privately."

Suspicion gnaws at me, but Goodwitch isn't one to start shit for funsies. "Team White. Go give your new gear a proper run-in. Lemme know if anything needs modifying."

Noir stands, already entering 'guard mode' as he slips his sheathed Viper into his new royal blue sash dotted with briar roses with a snake sword encircling them—House DeWitt's crest. He's gonna need better armour. Maybe I can improve on the design? It would be more familiar to him.

My teammates skit, though Tiff pats Nikos's shoulder on her way out.

Professor Goodwitch closes the door and turns to me, showing me a worried little frown for half a second before donning her usual cold mask. "Is it…safe to talk?"

I thought as much. "Noir. Starlight needs to stretch her legs." He salutes and turns heel, closing the cockpit door behind him. We lift off not a minute later, but that's plenty of time for Nikos to start actually fidgeting. I see.

Bunks clap down so the ladies can sit comfortably. It isn't a meeting room, but we'll just have to make do. I sit sideways in one of the passenger seats, facing biting-her-lip Nikos and worried-but-trying-to-hide-it Goodwitch.

"Let me guess. Fall Maiden?"

Nikos's nose snaps to me, her eyes wide and jaw low. She composes herself quickly, but I was looking for it.

"Not yet." Goodwitch smiles and nods. "But yes, that is what she's to deliberate."

Ozpin is the type to select only the best for such a thing. "Speak freely, Nikos. No one here will judge you for it."

"I…" Tears well up in the normally oh so composed girl's eyes. "I…"

"This isn't the usual procedure," Goodwitch helps her out. "The spy you identified left the current Fall Maiden comatose, and stole some of her power. We believe it's via the little beetle you identified."

That…shouldn't be possible. But this is Salem we're talking about. "So you're going to use Polendina's 'latest creation' to do something about the remainder?" Polendina's the only man alive with the balls to fuck with the fabric of life itself. So it's not exactly unpredictable.

"Yes. But we don't know how it will affect Ms Nikos. It could…"

"Make her someone else entirely." I nod. Aura, our soul, it's literally the basis of who we are. Messing with that is…delicate business. "Let me tell you a story, Ms Nikos. Of a man with two souls."

Nikos looks to me, her eyes begging for something, anything to hold onto during this storm.

"There once was a prince. A warrior as brave as they come. Though he fought in many a war, he never lost himself in battle. His people moved to the frigid north, in search of a home they could call their own. A home, free from the Grimm."

For the briefest of moments, Nikos forgets the maelstrom within, lost in my melodic storytelling.

"Months later, after the kingdom found peace at last. A voice appeared in the prince's head. He thought he must be going mad. Succumbed to the throes of battle at least, amidst his nascent kingdom's fragile peace. He fought it, valiantly as every other battle. But the voice would not wane. The voice would speak to him as he deliberated over kingdom defences, as he listened to his advisors. As he lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling.

"Over time, the prince learned to trust in the voice. Played chess matches against him. Muttering, seemingly to himself, over a glass of chardonnay at night as they discussed politics, treatises, and how to make the kingdom flourish.

"Then, one day, the voice vanished. The prince was worried, he needed his most trusted advisor back."

"What," Nikos is on the edge of her seat, "happened to the voice?"

"The two, became one. Like two planets colliding, it was traumatic at first. It must have felt like the world ended and nothing would ever be the same. But they merged, in time, becoming greater than the sum of their parts. The secret is to not fight it. Embrace who you are, as you are. And peace will find you. Though…" Ozpin's distrust of his own shadow isn't the healthiest thing. Best to stamp that out early on. "It might be advisable to take a knight to guard your heart while you merge."

"To. Guard my heart?" Nikos's eyes widen, her cheeks stained as merlot.

"It need not be romantic, Ms Nikos. Just someone you can talk to, someone you can trust to keep you grounded in the turmoil. Someone you would follow when you don't trust your own heart."

Nikos nods, staring down at her hands. "What…what happened to the prince?"

"Founder of the Kingdom of Mantle, King Oswalt DeWitt the first."

Bright green eyes snap up to me, wide enough to fall out their sockets.

"What?" I smile, laughing at the gobsmacked WTF look she still hasn't schooled. "Not what you expected from a guttersnipe?"

Laughter jumps up from Nikos, catching her by surprise.

"When we land. Summon Arc for me."

Nikos's laughter chokes off, her whole face bright red.

"Deny it all you want, Nikos. That farm boy…he's the one you trust."

Her arms wrap around her middle as she stares off to one side. Neck, face, ears, it all glows bright pink. "Do you…think he…?"

"Whether he likes you is irrelevant. He's too earnest to betray an ally. But you'll never get the words out, not the way he needs to hear them. Bring him to me."

Nikos fishes out her scroll, and makes a call. "Jaune?"

"Pyrrha! What…what's wrong? Where are you? I'm on my way!" Doesn't know where he's going, but already eager to get there. Fucking called it.

Nikos nods, tears in her eyes. "Meet me in Beacon hangar?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

Goodwitch opens the door, and sidesteps the eager Arc to not collide with him as he storms aboard. "Mr Arc. Good of you to come."

"Professor?! Ivory?! What is going…Pyrrha!" He forgets whatever questions and rushes over to Nikos's side, his hands shaking as he bombards her with a million questions I don't bother to decode.

Goodwitch nods to me, smiling as she sees herself out. The door closes on its own, and Noir takes us right back up into the air for another lap of Vale.

"Arc." The blond looks to me, visibly frustrated with Nikos's lack of response or the answers his frantic heart seeks. "She can't talk about it, not yet. So what you need to know is this."

Arc nods, settling down a bit, if still throwing concerned sidelong glances to the redhead.

"Nikos has been offered a great responsibility. One she fears is too much to bear alone."

Arc sighs, throwing his head back as he leans back. "Figures. She's the most talented fighter in Beacon, so she'd be the obvious pick." Curious, his response. One part admiration, one part depressed.

Still, he isn't wrong. Latent talent and a drive to be the best are a hell of a combination. "What she needs right now, is someone in her corner. Someone that will be there even if the world comes crashing down around her."

Arc looks down from the ceiling, his brow furrowed, a million brand new questions in his eyes.

"She trusts you, Arc. She believes you could be that man. That you would stand beside her when the world turns to shit. But no one can force you, or her, to take this on."

"What, wait, huh?" Arc's brain is probably pureed just now.

"She needs a friend, Arc. A shoulder to cry on. A willing ear to listen, especially when she isn't making any sense. Will you be that friend?"

"Of course! What kind of stupid question is that?"

I nod. Easy to predict, simpleminded as he is. But simple, predictable, is exactly what Nikos will need just now. "Good. Then here's what I can do for you both. Nikos. When you need answers, come to me. Arc. Girls are impossible to understand." I sigh, knowing that better than most. "When you need a translator, call me. And for fuck's sake, you little shit. Get some proper gods-damned gear. She needs a tank, not some whimpering little mook that'll drop dead in the first minute!"

"Hey! I'll have you know…" Finger raised, ready to let loose a winning argument. One that gets lost en route to his tongue, with only an aggravated groan left to unleash. "It's a family heirloom!" That's your defence?

I cock an eyebrow, giving him an honestly curious look. "How's that been working out for you?"

Arc sighs, slumping down all depressed again. "Not great."

"Not great. And Nikos will be counting on you to improve scary fast. We're talking break-neck speeds, Arc. That means doing what works." I make a gimme motion.

Blondie looks to Nikos, how her arms are subtly wrapped around her middle to hug herself, how small she clearly feels—especially when compared to the proud warrior we've come to know. When he looks back to me, the steel in his spine shines through, his game face on at last as he takes out his sheathed sword and offers her to me.

I take it and his hand, studying the size of the brown leather glove with metal plate on the back, the fingertips exposed. The black hoodie, the frankly laughable white armour and dual belts. He's a fixer-upper, this much is certain.

"I'll need your armour, as well." I get up and walk over to the kitchen, grabbing another backpack with assault rifle and pistol, and laying the museum piece on my workbench to analyse later. When I get back, Arc has his armour off, his back to the dilated pupils half-hidden by heavy lids. When Nikos finally notices me, she looks away, her face redder than her hair.

"While I'm working on this. You'll report to the firing range. I'll have Noir work you in." I trade Arc the bag for the armours. "If you don't give this your all, Arc. I'll write you off as a lost cause. Understood?"

Steely blue eyes, alight with the fire of determination. "Thank you, Ivory. I won't let you down." He bows, all respectful and shit.

Sigh. Stupid family traditions. I still haven't upgraded my Sun, you know!

**_8-8_**

* * *

The lift door opens into Ozpin's office. I enter, alone for once; not sure how to feel about that just now. I've…grown accustomed to Noir leading me in again, but Em's working him in on the Starlight just now, and that takes precedence.

Ozpin, Goodwitch, Ironwood, Branwen, and…Nikos are here, looking at Wenge and Tiff's match against some Mistral duet I don't recognize or care about. Of course my teammates are manhandling the poor sods, and their new armours don't hamper their movements in the least.

"Ms DeWitt, thank you for coming." Ozpin greets me, his world-weary eyes peering over his funny dark shades. "Please." He motions to the chair beside Nikos.

I take my seat, crossing my legs at the ankles. Ozpin pours me a cup, adding two sugars and some cream to it for it, before gently clinking it on his desk near me.

"Ms Nikos has made her decision. We'll be…seeing to that shortly." The headmaster's words aren't surprising, but what does it have to do with me?

I take my tea, stirring the decorative spoon into the turbulent depths as the scent of Darjeeling caresses my senses.

"You have orders, headmaster?"

"More…a favour to beg of you."

Fancy teacup kisses my lips; rich brew pours into me one gentle sip at a time.

"Ms Nikos will need some time to…shall we say, adjust?"

"Ivory." Branwen twists off the cap of his little canteen and takes a long pull. "We need you to take Nikos to Atlas. Keep her under the radar until the dust settles."

I smile. Well away from Vale while the world turns to shit, in other words. This I can live with.

"Not to Atlas." Ironwood gives me a meaningful look. "It'll raise too many questions we don't want answered just now."

I upend my teacup and set it on Ozpin's table. "I'll need a team, handpicked by me. Including Team White."

"Done." Ozpin nods, his eyes smiling for the first time since I've met him. "But, I would ask that you take Teams Ruby and Juniper, as well."

Hmm. Nikos will need her team now more than ever, so that at least is a no-brainer. The tyke is motivated, if a bit…rambunctious at times. Xiao Long is nothing if not a heavy hitter. Belladonna, while somewhat shifty, is a Faunus of moral fibre, I suppose. But Schnee…? Sigh.

Well, it would mean keeping the Bruins safe.

"Alright. When do we leave?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

The elevator goes down. And down. And down. We're no doubt heading right for the 'doesn't exist' labyrinth under the school.

Nikos is…tense. Not that I blame her. But the others offer her whatever privacy they think she needs just now.

"Where…will we go?" Nikos asks, doing her damnedest to keep the quiver in her voice under control.

"An old friend of the family," I say. "She likes to keep to herself. Away from the squabbling masses."

"Is it…safe there?"

"They told you about her?"

"Salem." Nikos nods. Ah. That makes sense.

"I used to think she was just a character in a scary campfire tale." I nudge the redhead with my elbow, throwing her a reassuring smile. "She only acts through pawns. And only a DeWitt can get you where we're going. We'll be fine."

"I…" Nikos stops, so I stop with her. "I'm scared."

I snort. "You'd be a fool not to be. And you don't strike me as a fool." I turn to her, ignoring the fading footsteps as the others continue on without us. "You don't bear this alone, Nikos. No Maiden ever has. And besides."

I walk along, arms folding behind my back as I go.

"For better, or worse. Arc will be there."

"How do you know that?" Her voice echoes down the cavernous corridor. Not my preferred décor. High ceilings are nice, but there's no art on the walls to tell the tales of this hallowed place.

"Because he's predictable," breathy wheezing jumps up from nowhere; a dry, hollow chuckle unlike the musical notes mum loved to hear, "and you know it."

Footsteps hurry my way. Nikos is at my side once again. "Who are you? Really."

"Me? I'm just a girl from Mantle." Who will be charging Ironwood a fuckton of Lien to keep you safe, and he damn well knows it.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The last little area. It has the woman I saw before, hooked up to more tubes and apparatuses than I care to identify. One of her eyes is covered in a spider's web of scars.

"Ms Nikos, if you would." Ozpin motions to an opening…bed of sorts, identical to what the comatose woman is held in. I look to Nikos, encouraging her best I can with a soft smile and a little nod. Ironwood, Goodwitch, and Branwen stand guard, so we should be alright.

The fidgety warrior steps in, the case closes with a gentle puff.

Ozpin goes absolutely nuts, hammering away at the console. Dunno what the hell he's doing, but he seems abnormally lucid. And focused. Maybe he finally got enough caffeine in his veins?

Frightened green eyes peer into me, wordlessly begging to not be alone just now. My hand presses against the see-through pane, phases right through it, and cups her cheek as I mouth, _You'll get through it_.

I pull back, not wanting to mess with whatever the hell is about to happen, but the brief exchange has Nikos breathing easier. She closes her eyes, finds her happy place, and seemingly zones out.

"Are you ready?" Ozpin's words ring clear. He peers up over his glasses at Nikos. She nods. "I…need to hear you say it."

"Yes."

"Thank you." Ozpin nods and presses one final key. Whatever the hell the machine is, it generates heat like you wouldn't believe. Wires glow white hot, leading from the comatose woman to Nikos. As it touches her, bleeds into her veins, Nikos's eyes fling open, a helpless scream escapes. It sounds…unpleasant.

Seconds stretch out into infinity, not helped by the anguished cries of a woman strong enough to make me question my odds against her. A beeping starts up. Slow and erratic, only to drag out into a low, low note.

The lights from the tubes eases into nothingness. Nikos's pain eases—or she passes out. The thing opens up, and a whimpering redhead flops out, into my embrace.

"Tell…Qrow…Amber's sor—" Nikos passes out, her tension unwinding against me.

Amber, huh.

I carry the sleeping princess along, heading towards the lift. The door swings open, we enter without an issue.

"I'll call my team when we're surface side. We leave to—"

My scroll buzzes like it's having a fit. I fish it out finding hundreds of messages and missed calls. I call Wenge.

"'Bout time!" An explosion goes off. Is he still in his match? "White Fang. Atlas droids and ships. Grimm up the wazzoo. Em and Noir are on air support. They need a sniper. Call them and get your ass over here."

"Send me your—"

"No time! They're faster. Call him. Now."

I hang up already dialing Em. "Shit and fans, you know the drill. Ironwood. Sounds like they got your fleet anyway. White Fang and Grimm are in on the party. I'll take Nikos. You do what you have to do."

"Qrow."

"Got it."

"Ivory. We'll handle this. Getting you and Nikos out is priority one."

No. Getting Wenge is priority one. "Understood."

**"Ive! Location! Now!" **

"Beacon. Ozpin's office. I'll be outside."

**"Two minutes!" **

The door pings open and I haul ass. I don't even wait for the automatic doors to open, I phase right through them. Starlight is already coming in. I don't wait for the ramp, nothing. I jump and phase right through the hull. "I'm in." I hang up and clap one of the bunks down, facing Nikos forward and strapping her in nice and snug. I rush forward and phase through the cockpit door.

"Update."

"Shit in a blender with no lid." Not comforting, Em.

Noir vacates the co-pilot seat and I strap in. "Got Nikos in the back. Keep an eye on her."

"Aye." The door opens and closes. Clouds flash with dust explosions, the air ripe with utter chaos.

"We've been doing the best we can. Used mostly canon fire on the big ones and let the ground teams handle the small ones. But everyone's running on fumes."

I slip on my goggles, booting my systems quickly. Canons have five rounds. Gatlings over twelve thousand. Good.

"The hell were you even doing? We've been going nuts trying to reach you!"

"I'll explain later. We have assholes to turn inside out."

Big ass mech come into view with six huntsmen lambasting it with blows. I call Wenge.

**"Occupied!"**

"I'm on eyes. Tell the others to maintain distance."

**"Oy! Cavalry's here! Maintain distance!" **

The friendlies back off and I fire the canon. Four shots left, but the mech splatters on impact. The explosion almost deafens me through the phone.

**"WHOO!"**

"So that's where you are."

**"Yeah! We're running on fumes! Got injured! The hell were you?"**

"No time. Gather the teams. We're coming to you." A wave of assholes make their way towards the explosion, Grimm and betties alike.

I line up the shot and spin the gatlings. One volley, spray takes eight down. The blues in that area don't like the look of that and turn heel. Fuck them. I aim for them specifically and send volley after volley, carpeting the entire fucking wave until there's only red-glowing Grimm. No survivors once you go rogue.

With the blues out, I line up the reds. Nine thousand rounds left.

Another wave, reds, but a building gets in the way. Em moves us up over the top. Horrid angle, but I line it up anyway and spray it all over their backs like it's a porno.

The closer we get, the more the carnage becomes obvious. Bodies law strewn in the streets. Buildings gutted, their entrails all over the surrounding cars that tried to escape.

**"We're missing Pyrrha!"** The panic is unmistakable.

"Tell Arc she's with me. Need a roll call."

**"Team Ruby, Team Funky, Team Juniper, Team Coffee. Tiff, too."**

**"Hey!"**

Another wave, this one trying to retreat. It's blue, so not Grimm. But I dunno if they're friendlies or not. I let them go, to be safe.

More betties. Yellow. Droids? Fuck them. I line up the shot. Now that we're closer, I can be stingy on ammo. One round, line up the next, one round, line up the next, one round, line up the next. By the time I fire the last round, the first's head explodes.

A whistle, long and low. "We got a long flight ahead," is all I say. All I need to say. The more rounds we have, the more likely we'll make it.

We're almost there. Six more yellows, more of those big ass mechs. Don't have the canon rounds for them. I aim for their canons, line up, and shoot; more than satisfied with the fucking things explode in their grips. But the mechs themselves survive. They're the big bitches, huh?

"I'm going in." I phase through the seat. The air whistles passed as I pull my hood up and button it tight. The scene below renders in my mind. Using my hands like wings, I aim myself for the one nearest my Wenge.

At the last second I phase Sun out of her sheathe, flick my wrist to activate the crystal, and drive Sun's tip right into the paladin.

I don't even make a dent. Oh?

I jump up, somersault, and lash out with a phased snake-Sun, cutting right through the insides. Armoured paladins—that shit won't save you. The cocksucker falls over, dead. So I jump off and rush to the next.

Snake-Sun lashes it, phases through the armour and guts the bitch from the inside, before phasing out the next side. Another little shit drops and I phase right through it, rushing to the next.

One by one, Atlas's supposed superior tech is gutted.

I throw back my head, doffing my hood as I make my way back to my team, finding a warzone. Xiao Long lost everything below the elbow. Tiff is sprawled out on the ground, sweating like mad. The others are roughed up, but are otherwise fine.

Wenge. Whole. Battered and bruised, but whole. His helmet's curiously missing.

My scroll vibrates. I fish it out. "Incoming. North. Grimm. Lots of them."

I toss my scroll to Wenge and sheathe Sun, taking her out and shifting her into rifle-form, before slamming a red drum-mag into her ass and ratcheting. The scope pops up as the first corpse rushes around the corner.

Trigger squeezes and the ursai's brain explodes, splattering across the building behind it. With one down, a fuckton take its place. Oh?

"Yo, Em. Need evac. Stat."

I set rifle-Sun to three-burst and squeeze the trigger. Line up, squeeze, line up, squeeze. Over and over and over, counting down from forty to avoid the dreaded click.

At six, the last lubed asshole is fucked.

A roar. Another gods-damned nevermore and its little kiss-me-ass gryffons. "Ive! Move!"

I nod, agreeing we're better equipped to handle them in the air. So I backtrack, sniping off the little cunt as I go.

Wenge grabs me, throws me over his shoulder. Ass. With how he's juggling me, I can't aim for shit.

"BRUIN!"

The nevermore flings its feathers, to carpet the area. A bright white glyph covers us, turning black as the feathers get close. Respect, Schnee. Owe you one. But the damn gryphs rain down their fireballs. Wenge is on empty if he's bruised up.

I phase through Wenge, dropping to the ground and now behind him. He stops and turns just in time for me to grab him and phase us through the explosion. I shift Sun into sheath-form and stuff her into my sash, unholstering Moon and clicking off the safety. She's a bit heavier than I'm used to, with the heavier ass and drum-mag, but she should be more useful just now.

Once the fire dies down, I hard-light rounds fire up at the gryphs, piercing them clean through and dusting them mid-aid. Wenge grabs me again and drags me into Starlight.

"EM!" We lift off immediately, and the nose turns to the nevermore. Four canon-rounds fire, the explosions almost deafening. Then, silence. I'm guessing he got it.

"Let's not do that again." Wenge collapses, into a chair. I engage the safety and holster Moon, chuckling.

**_8-8_**

* * *

We're halfway Atlas by now. Noir's at the wheel, with Em half-alert at his side. We're fine, so I head to the bathroom to handle my business. I grab two beers from the fridge, bringing them back to the passenger cabin.

I tap Wenge's shoulder, offering him one. He's out cold, though. Figuring he needs his rest, I plop onto the bed next to Tiff instead. She looks up at me, tears in her eyes.

"I…"

"There's a doctor where we're going." My words don't set Tiff at ease, but she isn't panicking either. "Still can't feel 'em?"

Tiff looks away.

Feared as much. I slip my arm under her and lift her up, sitting behind her so she can rest against me. She doesn't fight me, especially not when I offer her the beer.

"Wenge was amazing." Tiff's tone, soft as it is, is awash with gratitude. She's still mentally fucked, but she's coping.

"It's how Bruins are." Best not to dwell. We all cope in our own ways, no point in infringing on hers.

"Is it true?"

"Eight months." I nod. "If you need to go. I'll help."

"Could…could you?"

"Now?" She nods. I set our beers down and scoop her out of bed, carrying her down the hall. Wenge was…bigger, so it was easy for him to hold me like a toddler. But me? Tiff is my size.

In the lavatory, I set Tiff down and set my legs to either side of her, closing the door. I keep her knees between mine, with her feet nestled between mine, and hug her under her arms, lifting her up. Once standing, I keep one arm around her and use my free hand to work her belt and zipper, carefully exposing her, before sitting her down.

"I'll wait outside. Just knock when you're done, okay?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

The woman reads out the vector. Em punches it into his scroll, gives the readback, and confirms our heading, before taking us into Atlas Airport. I've come here so often lately, it's almost embarrassing.

But hopefully, the worst is behind us.

On landing, Mrs Bee and Sage rush me, checking every inch to make sure I'm okay.

"It's baby bear you should worry about. Wouldn't even wake up to share a victory beer."

Mrs Bee laughs, knowing I'm doing just fine, so she shuffles right along to check on him.

"Owe you one, Ive." Flynt nods as he and Neon walk passed. Neon, of course, hugs me and purrs to show how happy she is—to be home, to not be in Vale, to just have a hug. Something. She's happy.

"No sweat." I bump fists with Flynt. "We'll be in touch."

While they mush along, Dr Pickles and his usual three nurses bring Mr Bee on in. He's doing so much better, moving about in a wheelchair, but he still looks too pale for my liking.

The rest Mr Bee's guards walk in, each saluting me in turn.

"Wenge?" Mrs Bee's voice…she sounds…no. It's nothing, Ive. You're just tired. Imagining things. "Wenge! Wake…wake up! Baby, wake up for mommy!"

**_8-8_**

* * *

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Wenge is…

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He hasn't woken up.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Not during the eight hour flight to Atlas to get the others, not the four hour flight up the mountain. Not the four days since we hooked him up to every medical apparatus we have for him.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I thought he was just tired. He looked so peaceful, so I didn't want to wake him.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Instead, all I get is the familiar white walls. A dozen monitors to show just how fucked life got. Heart monitor. Blood saturation levels. Chart upon chart of things I can't make sense of.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It's the same room. The same bed I lost mum. Dr Pickle checks my Wenge, his brain activity, his reflexes. The same doctor that kept mum alive for weeks…Nurse Periwinkle was shocked mum even lasted that long with her injuries—not that she knew I was in the hallway as she said it.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The monitor that should show brain activity. It's quiet.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Wenge…

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I take my gentle giant's hand into mine. He's warm, but that's it.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

No response. No half-hearted squeeze. No twitch. Nothing. Like a warm doll.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I pinch his hand, hoping to see something happen on the brain wave monitor. Nothing.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Not like this, baby bear.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Not like this.

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Four_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N:_**


	16. V3:C5—Autumn turns to Winter

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Three, Chapter Five—Autumn turns to Winter**_

_**8-8**_

* * *

Jackboots stamp an uneasy staccato, echoing down the sacred halls of the DeWitt Crypt. Bottle in hand, chugging as I stumble along, leading the procession the only way I know how: drunk.

"Uh, guys?" Arc starts his shit. "Where are we going?"

"Settle down, tin man," Flynt says, his solemn voice echoing through the halls of my ancestors. "This the most sacred place in the Old Kingdom."

"Yeah." Neon backs him up, throwing me an encouraging smile—hollow compared to her usual sunshiny grins. The second they heard Mrs Bruin freak out, they refused to let me out of their sight. Even called Holly and Kale for backup.

"How would you know that?" Schnee asks, more curious than acidic.

"Mantle history." Kale's soft tone, the pain he carries with me. "Everyone with ties to the Kingdom of Mantle learns it from the time we can walk."

"Ain't that the truth." I can almost hear Flynt rolling his eyes, annoyed that another Atlas yuppie doesn't know dick about our culture, our long history. "We call this place Valhalla."

"This," Schnee's awe is so great that I stop and turn to her, "is the DeWitt crypt. Isn't it."

"The one and only," Kale confirms, holding his lantern higher to chase the darkness of the cold and lonely halls. My eyes close, needing neither light nor my hood to paint the scene they can barely make out.

The statuettes of Mantle's warriors of old lining the pathways paved with the skulls of our fallen honour guards. Metres-tall guardian statues of human bodies with heads of jackals, each still holding their ceremonial glaive—Anu, the patron of my House. But it's the half circles at each guardian statue's feet that tighten the bolts on my chest. Ash gardens filled with the remains of all who served my House faithfully through the ages, with a single petrified tree sapling in the middle.

"Then these…?" Belladonna holds up the crate she bears, eyes the pistol, the dogtags carefully lain atop.

"She never buried them." Schnee's sky blue eyes darken, like a hailstorm brews within. Tears well up. "She left before she could."

My eyes pop open as bottle kisses my lips, filling the emptiness within.

"Lady DeWi'." Noir wraps an arm around me, just as my knees give out. "'Er Grace awaits." Mum never did like me dawdling.

**_8-8_**

* * *

We approach the final archway. Two human-sized guardian statues of Anu stand frozen in time, their glaives crossed to block the path.

"Stop." Kale's cold tone freezes the group. He walks up to the left statue and gently lays Desmond's crate at its feet. "Only DeWitt may venture beyond. Please. Line them up here for her."

One by one, the others take Kale's lead and lay my burdens at Anu's feet.

All but Tiff, seated in my old wheelchair. I go to her, trade my half empty comfort for dad's crate. The weight is both far too light for the giant of a man he was, and far too heavy for the daughter meant to bear it. But I carry him all the same, carry him to the crossed glaives and click my heels together, standing at attention best I can with slumped shoulders.

"I, Ivory Serene DeWitt, request passage into the beyond. Grant my humble plea, Anu, I pray you." A soft grinding sends dust and ash cascading off the glaives as they part.

And I walk. Alone. Always alone. Into the grand cavern. Golden bowls flare up from the altars encircling a steaming pool, bathing the hall in an eerie blue light that sets even the hallowed waters alight as my ancestors look down from their thrones in the life hereafter.

I lay dad on the altar to the left, and return for Jade and Desmond, laying them beside him.

My hands quake, barbed wire wounds round my chest and pulls taut as I set their pistols to the left of the wooden crates. Their dogtags follow, rattling as I handle them. I open dad's first, pull out the skull fragments, shattered from the gaping hole that claimed him, and lay them on the altar.

Swallowing hard to keep the bile within, I gather the fragments of the girl I used to be, and carry them into the waist-deep pool, my feet slipping on the skulls of kings long passed as I wade toward the very centre.

"Receive into your embrace, o god of light, the son lost to us. Seat him at your table, that he might never know the," I choke back a sob best I can, "burden of the Remnant you left behind."

I lower the skull fragments into the water, gently setting them beside his father's, his mother's, his brother's, and the tiny skull of his sister, frozen in infancy. Beside mum's. The family life stole from me.

I need a drink.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Glass bottles clatter as I slam open the cabinet and threaten to fall when I jerk one out. I try to work the cap, but it mangles and deforms with my handling.

"Give ih 'ere." Noir takes the bottle from me and twists the cap off. I jerk it out of his grip and bring the damned thing to my lips, taking a long pull. The burning in the back of my throat sloshes down, warming and chilling me all at once.

A cushioned throne in desperate need of upholstering drags against the scuffed and chipped marble floor as I jerk it back, and groans as I collapse between its arms. Bottle kisses my lips, filling me best it can to drown the pain.

The dining hall surrounds me. Life-sized portraits of everything I ever lost, laden with dust, surround me. A particularly potent knee to the crotch hangs over the fireplace. A painting of mum and I braiding dad's silvery moustache—our eyes laugh even as dad rolls his in resignation. Our long, icy tresses done up in fancy buns for the occasion, a stark contrast to dad's crew cut. But the dresses are what truly shivs me in the gut.

The bright pink evening gown mum picked out for me, with a solitary white iris blooming on my left breast. A ten year old tomboy didn't stand a chance at budding more than thimbles, but mum was complementary of the young lady I was growing into all the same.

No one dares make a sound as they eat. Not even the clatter of silverware punctuates their dinner. Not that I'm hungry, but Mrs Bruin will just get on my case if I don't.

Sigh. Bottle slams onto the long un-oiled table, my fork stabs into the meal over and over as I work in what I can. Almost as if receiving my blessing, the sounds of knives cutting their meats, the crunch of salads being chewed, the gentle din of a meal partaken fills the room.

A door groans open, the chittering of yet more fucking parakeets assaults my ears. Aunt Petunia comes shuffling in, pushing her walker along with three attendants bringing in the gilded cages of her favoured noise makers. "Ah, I thought I heard my little tomboy kicking up a ruckus."

Sigh.

"What? No hug for an old lady?"

I swallow my mouthful and wash it down with sickly sweet amaretto, shunting my seat back as I stand. My footfalls are heavy as I make my way to her, but I wrap her in a tender hug just the same.

"There there, now." Her singsong cadence hasn't changed, nor has the gentle tapping against my back, if lower now I'm grown. "Jimmy boy told me everything. No need to hide your tears from me."

I pull back, heaving a sigh. Aunt Petunia is all dolled up, her stringy angel hair mane done up in a fancy bun, and the snow white gown lends her an air of distinction.

"Come." Aunt Petunia trades her walker for my arm. "You should introduce me to your friends, since they've come all this way." I guide her to the head of the table, as she deserves, but as she gets comfortable, her stare draws my attention to her right.

"Good evening." Sage tries her best to smile, her worries worn on her sleeve.

Aunt Petunia pinches Sage's chin and pulls her to have a good look. "You have her eyes."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Laughter fills the dining hall as we crowd around the fireplace to stay warm. I pay it no mind, my head lain in Aunt Petunia's lap as she scratches my scalp between sips, hers and mine.

"Oh yes. Ivory was quite the spirited one, had poor Pietro in a huff every time he lost sight of her for a second. Why, the day she took her first step, Gion warned him. Told him that he'd best not blink or she'll just get into more trouble."

"And righ' 'e was." Noir raises his beer bottle to the family portrait.

"Was he ever." Aunt Petunia's melodic laughter fills the hall, bringing a smile to even my lips, wrapped around the bottle's mouth as it is. "Gion told me each tale of this little firecracker's grand escapes. Not even Pietro figured out how she stole out into the city."

Noir snorts, almost choking on his beer.

"What about her mom?" Rose asks. "What was she like?"

"Iris? Oh, Iris was a lady like no other." Aunt Petunia raises her wine glass to the portrait, the smile obvious in her tone. "Graceful as a ballerina, more beautiful than midwinter's dawn. But it was her heart that ensnared those around her."

I drown a sigh in liquor.

"She had a gift, truly. Able to bring comfort to the bereft, to soften the hardest hearts. She often went out into the city, bringing freshly baked loaves and sweets to those in need. Gathered the neighbourhood children round for story time each Friday evening, just as Gion's mother before her.

"Oh, but it was her voice than thawed Gion's cold heart. Performed in a quaint establishment when they met. Sung lullabies for Mantle's woes every night, faithful as Jack Frost's chill. Did her best to smoothen Ivory's rough edges, but…"

Aunt Petunia pets my hair, nudging me to lay my head in her lap again. As if she knows I was about to leave. "She's her father's daughter, and Gion wouldn't stop bragging about it. Any who would listen, he'd regale them with her latest misadventures. From scraped knees from falling out of another tree. To the ballet recitals Iris insisted on. Oh, but it was her violin. Gion would go on and on about how her playing moved him to tears."

I lay here, listening to tales of a ghost sung in Aunt Petunia's familiar lilt.

"What happened?" Schnee's innocent question upends my bottle, a vain attempt to deafen me to the answer.

"Ivory?" Aunt Petunia nudges my chin to look to her. Her soft violet eyes smile as bright as she can, all things considered. "It's time. Share that burden, child. It's the only way you'll ever see the gift the present truly is."

"I'm entirely too sober." I stand, but Aunt Petunia holds my elbow, her eyes begging me with everything she has.

"The only way their stories won't fade, is by sharing them with the people you love." She pats her lap again, inviting me to lay my burden on her, to let her bear it with me. "Please, Ivory. Love Iris enough for that."

Bottle's last gulp swishes into my mouth and down the hatch. "I need a d—"

"Ivory DeWitt." Aunt Petunia doesn't hide her tears from me, or a single gram of love from her now watery gaze. "If Iris saw the women standing before me. If Gion walked in right now. How do you think they'd react? Would they be proud of the person you allow yourself to become?"

"So what, I open up? I tell them like I told Wenge?! Like I told Mr Bee? Look what that got me." I throw the empty bottle into the fire, the gentle crash setting everyone on edge. "What it got them!"

"Let it out," Aunt Petunia begs. "Cry. Get angry. Shout until your lungs give out. But for pity's sake, Ivory, stop keeping it in or you'll shut yourself off from everyone you have left."

"You can't lose what you don't have." I walk away, reaching for the gilded brass doorknob, rusted with age.

"I'm old, Ivory."

My hands wrap around me, trying to keep the last bits from crumbling.

"You will lose me one day. Will you run from me, too?"

She just sits there, in her favoured armchair by the fire, surrounded by my classmates, old and new. She never looked this fragile, this worn down by time's cruel touch. Leathery arms open wide, beckoning for me.

Doorknob twists, groaning open as I walk out.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I take his hand into mine, praying to any god listening for him to be okay.

Bee. Beep. Beep.

Nothing changes, of course.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Father and son, side by side. Both fucked up for trying to save those around them.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

None admit it, not to me at least, but hearing of Wenge's condition sent Mr Bee into relapse. All the progress undone, because I wasn't there.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The door groans. Noir enters carrying a little black case, with a bow. A violin—Aunt Petunia's suggestion, no doubt.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Wenge le' ih slip. Tha' 'e never 'eard you play."

"An excellent idea." Dr Pickles 'just so happens' to walk in, arms crossed under her bust. "Studies show that music does wonders for the healing process, you know."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Please, Lady DeWi'." Noir offers me the case. "Ih's somethin' you can do."

Sigh. He's not wrong.

I take the case, set it on Wenge's bed. The simple brass clasps flap up and the case opens. A simple violin, full-sized. As I take it out, I can almost hear mum in the background, getting comfortable to listen to me practice, and dad popping a bottle of bourbon, rattling off which opus he'd like to hear—usually a Mozart piece, since he loved the flashier pieces most stumble over.

As I tune her, a mumbling starts up outside. The others are hiding in the wings, no doubt curious if I can even play a crisp note.

Using Wenge's heartbeat for a metronome, I bring the violin to me, and take the bow Noir offers.

"Don't blame me if I'm rusty."

I strum the opening movement of Tchaikovsky's Opus two, number three. Song without words, I believe this bit is called.

It's not a slow piece, exactly, but not as break-neck as some I've learned. Usually accompanied by a piano, but it sounds pleasant solo just the same. The long movements coupled with jittery ditties sprinkled in. Mum preferred these pieces, more of a romantic tint, I suppose.

The notes aren't as crisp as they once were, not after not having touched a violin since that night. But they're laden with a calm sort of sadness, especially the low notes.

As the last note rings through the room, my eyes flutter open, glued to Wenge's brain activity monitory. Not even a twinge throughout the three minute piece.

Just the beep, beep, beeping of his heart drumming along.

Sigh.

"Maybe Rachmaninoff?" Noir suggests. Of course he goes for my favourite composer. "Will ih 'elp if I slosh me bourbon abou'?"

I set the violin in the case, but soft clapping of slippers comes my way. Smiling yellow eyes greet me as Sage sets a pillow on the ground and gets comfy.

Sigh. I pick up the violin again, setting its ass against my neck, and bring the bow up.

A trumpet sounds out, strumming up a far more upbeat Jazz number I haven't heard in years. Flynt walks in like he owns the place with a spring in his step and a smile in his eyes that dares me to take up his challenge. Neon and Holly come in as well, clapping to the rhythm Flynt sets.

"Come on, Ivy." Neon rubs her cheek against mine. "You know you want to." I can't decide if I want to laugh or cry. Maybe both. But bowstring meets violin just the same.

**_8-8_**

* * *

We gather in the dining hall once again, round the fireplace. Other than training, there isn't a whole lot for anyone to do here—nothing they're allowed to, at least.

Aunt Petunia decides now's a perfect time for more embarrassing stories about me as a child, but at least Flynt gets roped into it, with how often we got caught together, playing music in some dive I'd never get permission to enter; not legally, not from the proprietor, and most certainly not from our parents.

"Sounds like you guys go way back," Xiao Long says, sipping her beer.

"Tha's right." Flynt smiles, nudging Neon. "It's how we met Ms Kitty Katt. Her old man nearly skinned the lot of us when he found us."

"Whose. Neon's or Ivory's?" Rose asks, rolling her eyes. Her dad's probably no better.

"Whichever got to us first." Holly giggles, thinking back. "Especially when they caught us sneaking liquor from my moms' cabinet."

"Psh!" Flynt raises his beer to me. "No matter how many new locks they tried. Ive picked 'em right quick. The major wouldn't stop laughing each time Ilex's mommas called in."

"Yeah." Holly chuckles. "But he did replace each bottle. Didn't even act surprised it was mostly bourbon."

My scroll rings. Aw fuck. I fish it out.

**"Ivory. Status update."**

Sigh. "It's good to see you too." I empty the bottle down the hatch, knowing he'll just get testy. "We've arrived. Doctors tend to the injured. Nikos and I are physically fine. Aunt Petunia's telling embarrassing stories about me."

**"And…?"**

Sigh. "Mr Bee's condition worsened when he heard about Wenge. Yang Xiao Long and Tiffany Tulip are stable, but only they and Dr Pickles know the details."

**"I'm sorry to hear that."** Regret seeps into his tone, his eyes worn as he stares dead ahead. He looks…tired. "Team Funky haven't reported in."

"They're too busy spilling all my old secrets. And Team Coffee are wholly uninjured, mostly just waiting for permission to head out."

Ironwood chuckles. **"Glad to hear it. We're scheduled to land in twelve minutes, twenty-six seconds. Report to the hangar for debriefing. All of you."**

And he just hangs up. Sigh.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I palm the security interface, lowering the hangar door for Ironwood's ship—not Blue Two, thankfully, there isn't that much space in here. The ramp barely lowers before Professor Xiao Long comes barrelling down and to his daughters. Big, strong, ain't afraid of nothing Xiao Long tears up, glad to have his babies in his arms again.

Ironwood and Branwen come down together. They look…harried.

"Ms Xiao Long." Ironwood offers blondie a sturdy-looking case. "For you." Not a man of many words, so when she accepts it, questions in her eyes, he simply crosses his arms behind him and steps back.

"Vale is safe. For now." Ironwood paces back and forth, trying to make sense of things. "But we…lost Professor Ozpin."

Sigh.

"Professor Ozpin?" I dunno who says it. Don't much care.

"Yes. As such, I cannot and will not take unnecessary risks. I have a team working around the clock to change every single line of code, and to up security in Atlas and Mantle alike. However…"

Mantle will take to that like a fish to the clouds.

"Ivory. I need a judgment call. Would you entrust this to those present?"

All eyes are on me. Sigh. Thanks, asshole. I slap the interface, closing the hangar door.

"Schnee. What's your real stance on your father?"

"Hmph!" The heiress crosses her arms and turns up his nose. "If you know who he is, my stance is more than predictable."

"He's an incurable asshat." I cock an eyebrow.

"My point exactly." Schnee gives me a questioning look, wondering what I expected her to say. Hmm.

"Then if anyone wants out from the brewing war. Board Ironwood's ship."

"Wait, what?"

Team Coffee share a look, all frowns.

"Look passed your nose. The head of Atlas's military is here, after Vale got assfucked, and he's asking if he can trust you. It ain't an invite to brunch, shit for brains. You want in? Stay. You rather grow old? Out."

Adel rights her shades. "I assume that means targeting the banshee that broke my city?" Wait, is she…? Nope. Not worth the brain cells.

"What do you think?" Branwen smirks, dark joy in his eyes.

The lot of them let my words sink in, understanding clear as day this is Mantle's brand of tea time, crumpets included.

"I…" Belladonna is the first to bow out. Free will, it's a thing.

"Blake." Rose takes it hard. She's a good kid, but just a kid all the same.

"I just wanna go home." Belladonna breaks line-up heading for the ship with head low and tail between her legs—not literally. I'm not sure if she has a tail.

Kale drops out next. "Mother would have a fit." He heads for the ramp just the same. No shame in respecting your mother's wishes.

"Yo, Kale." The prat turns to me, questions in his eyes. "I'll dedicate the first hundred to you."

The heir shakes his head. "You let me know if there's anything Kale Industries can do, DeWitt. And take care of my team for me. We both know they're not sitting this out." Neon, Flynt, and Holly grin, saluting their teammate. Fuck it, he's earned this. I salute, too.

He turns to us and salutes in kind, before turning and heading home.

Xiao Long grabs her stump, likely trying to ball a fist no longer there. "Ruby, I'm…" Tears come quickly, no matter how she tries to swallow them. She held up a lot better than I expected, truth be told.

"Nothing to be sorry about, kiddo." Her dad, wraps an arm around her, and they walk up the ramp together, case in hand. "Ruby? You coming?"

"I can't. If I stop now? If I just go home? Sure, I'll be safe, but…who'll protect Patch? Who'll protect Vale?" Rose balls her fists. "This is why I chose to be a Huntress in the first place."

Her words give Belladonna and Kale pause, but not so much they come back. And if I didn't know any better, I'd think that stick in the mud is smiling. Didn't know he had it in him.

"Anyone else? No one will hold it against you." Ironwood looks to Tiff, giving her an understanding look.

"Are you shitting me?!" Tiff sneers. "I'll put my foot up anyone's ass that tells me to sit this out!" Suicidal by definition, even in a wheelchair. Damn, the girl's got spunk.

I snort, bumping fists with my teammate.

"Besides. It's not like any of you can keep this airhead under control. Until Wenge gets back, it falls to me." Could've done without that.

"Good." Ironwood eyes the lot of us, checking if there's anyone else who wants out. Satisfied, he nods and the ship's door closes. "Because we have a problem."

"Oh, Jimmy boy. I do hope you're not talking about me." Aunt Petunia comes out, pushing her walker along at a quick enough clip to have her nurses in a panic behind her.

I'm about to get more bad news. Aren't I.

"It's good to see you, Ms Winthrop."

"Now isn't the time for such talks, Jimmy. There's—"

"No longer in recession," I cut in, cocking an eyebrow to dare either of them to lie to me. Aunt Petunia freezes, her nurses even more freaked out because they almost collide with her.

Ironwood clears his throat. "Yes. Unfortunately, that is the case. And you well know what that means."

Sigh. "New Autumn, new Winter." So go the seasons. Ironwood nods, but Aunt Petunia rushes to me, tossing her walker aside as she tackles me—well, not hard enough to floor me, at least. Sigh. "Stop laying the hints on so thick, if you don't want me to figure it out."

"I'm so sorry, Ivory. I didn't think you could handle it on top of everything else."

Sigh. "We didn't ask for this."

"Are they talking English?" she-Hulk asks.

"Nora!" Ninja-boy gets on her case.

"What? I'm just saying. When people talk I can usually understand what it's about."

"Hey, Jimmy. Maybe we should get a drink. It looks like there'll be questions." Sigh.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The mood is subdued as Aunt Petunia tells her of her battle with cancer. It's no longer her liver, but bone cancer isn't a step up; she has a year, maybe.

"It gets worse," Professor Branwen puts his foot in it. Hard. Sigh. "With a new Autumn Maiden in need of training. We have no one that can teach her. Not like Petty can."

Aunt Petunia whacks Branwen with her purse, but Branwen barely seems to notice. "What he means—"

"She ain't a kid, so stop treatin' her like one." Branwen upends his little canteen. "Ive. The situation is this. The more she uses her powers, the more the cancer spreads. And with Oz gone, you know the cheery picture that paints."

I drown a sigh in bourbon, gulping the bitch down to the last drop. "And I'll need to attend every lesson so I'll know what to expect." Meaning, I get front row seats to her withering away.

"If you don't mind my asking?" Arc spies the guilty look on Nikos's face, knowing this has everything to do with her. "What is a…Autumn Maiden?"

The others look to me, to how I get up and grab another bottle of bourbon and pop the top. "You know. Don't you, Ivory." It doesn't matter who says the words, they only give voice to the consensus.

"If Oz were here, he'd ask you," I take a long pull from the bottle, "what your favourite fairy tale is. I'm too direct for that shit. So here's some facts. The DeWitts were kings that kept meticulous records for eons. Do you think Atlas would piss on me if they didn't need what I have?"

Team Funky get in a good laugh, knowing I'm right.

"The Four Maidens are literal spell casters, able to use magic. Not even needing dust to do so." Everyone not in the know looks at me like I'm a fucking idiot.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Arc has had his WTF quota filled, and then some. "Magic?"

"Like aura manipulation is that different?" I cock an eyebrow. Arc tries to make a comeback, but all I hear is unintelligible grunts and loose syllables.

"Why…are you telling us this?" Rose asks the question of the century. Why am I telling anyone anything?

"I'm just telling you what you need to know in a dose you won't choke on." I take another long pull and plop on the ground by Aunt Petunia's feet—the gentle petting starts up quickly, thankfully. "Fact is. The hand that acts from the shadow? She fucked up, let me live."

"Wait…" Ninja-boy's gears are a grinding. "The Great War? There was more to it?" Not sure how he jumped to that conclusion. He's sharp, and clearly not in the know of things. Checked off the list.

"Every war. Every conflict. Every miscommunication between kingdoms." Branwen points to the cabinet, happy to help himself when I nod. He goes for a particularly nice bourbon, but fuck, with all this bullshit, we all need a drink. "It all has a single hand it can be traced to."

"Ah ha!" She-Hulk jumps up, hand in the air as she points to Aunt Petunia. "You're her aunt! So you're not the last DeWitt! See, I'm plenty smart." Groan. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, that's for sure.

"No, Valkyrie. Aunt Petunia was…close with my grandmother." The technical term would be 'lover', but that wasn't exactly kosher in their day. I think it's sweet Aunt Petunia was in grandmother's final thoughts—especially since there was no DeWitt to inherit at the time. "Put simply, a Maiden passes on her powers at death. The woman who's in their final thoughts is the inheritor. And yes, the power is sexist. Deal with it."

Neon and Holly share a look, snickering at the boys' groaning.

"How does professor Ozpin tie into all this?" Schnee asks. And with that particular cat outta the bag, everyone looks to me, again.

"Every light casts a shadow." I take another swig. "And every shadow needs a light."

Professor Branwen chuckles, as he plops back down and pops the top. But my classmates look confused.

"Trust me. You have enough to chew on." And I have a mole to weed out. Not tipping my hand that fucking much until I do. Salem has been nothing if not consistent in that.

"I'll say! I still can't believe Ivory's grandmother was a lesbian, too." Everyone turns to she-hulk, confused how she even came to that conclusion. I mostly just look to Aunt Petunia, giving her a wicked grin—especially with how flushed she is.

"Too?"

So it skipped a generation. "Meh."

"Ivory?" Nikos gives me a look, like she's ready to hyperventilate. I nod.

"General Ironwood, sir!"

"What is it lieutenant?" That's good question. What's with the sudden formality?

"I'm afraid I have to resign from the corps, sir. Lady DeWi' will—"

"Will be your sole duty," Ironwood cuts him off. "Permanently."

"Understood, sir! Resignation withdrawn, sir!"

"Good. I'll leave Qrow in charge. If you need to head out, I'll send Winter to relieve you." Ironwood salutes. "And Ivory. I'll…need you to handle something in Mantle for me, once you've rested."

I salute from my cosy spot. But Flynt, Neon, and Holly jump to their feet and salute properly.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Ivory, what…?" Nikos lets me close the damn door before she starts her game of twenty-one questions. I palm the interface, and the door locks, leaving us alone in my bedroom, where no one but Noir will hear much of anything.

"Would you rather sit or pace?" I plop on the ground to the foot of my bed, upending the bottle to get stupid drunk with all the bullshit going on.

"What's going on? Why aren't they being told about Salem? About the true purpose of the Four Maidens? And why do you know about all this? I…I don't understand."

Sigh. "The night my parents died." I take a long pull from my bottle. "I survived only because of dumb luck. Took a bullet to the spine so I couldn't escape. Only reason I did, was because I unlocked my Semblance and dropped through the floor, practically on top of Noir."

"What does—"

"They were Atlesian Ace-Ops, indirectly taking orders from Salem." That knocks the wind from her sails.

"So the DeWitt family knew about her?" She isn't connecting the dots at all.

"Stop fidgeting and start thinking."

Nikos's spine goes ramrod straight, her eyes wide with fear. Ah, that's why.

"Amber, I take it?" I get a nod. "I'll tell you the same I told Nikos. You need to start trusting each other. Like it or don't, your lives are one now."

Amber takes two fistfuls of her skirt.

"So let's take it one at a time. Siddown."

The suddenly meek warrior does just that, sitting opposite me.

"The Winter Maiden powers have been passed down from grandmother to granddaughter since the founding of Mantle. It's how our family's seals were designed." I pull up my hood, showing her the intricate matrix of scribbles connecting the dust crystals. "The man of many lives? Professor Ozpin? He was the founding king, my ancestor. He's currently MIA, but he'll be back. And like us, he'll need to train to wield his powers."

Amber shakes her head, and her countenance changes. More sure of herself, more graceful with her movements.

"Nikos?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. We're not used to…changing seats, as it were. So Professor Ozpin will reincarnate?"

I nod.

"I see." Nikos's face grows fearful. "I'm so sorry about your friend. If only I—"

"Amber." I raise a hand. "Don't be sorry for those who fell, be worthy of their sacrifice. It's," I take a long pull, gulping down the familiar pain, "it's all that keeps me going."

"Forgive me, Ivory." Nikos looks down. "But I must ask. You said from grandmother to granddaughter, but you aren't related to Ms Winthrop?"

"Mm." I nod. "My grandmother died in childbirth. So there wasn't even a daughter to pass it onto. Aunt Petunia was her lover, so…"

"I see." Nikos takes a deep breath, but the fear surges just the same. "You'll lose the last memory of your family, because of—"

"You heard what she said, Amber. All we do is shorten the timer."

Nikos's face goes from panicked to stoic and back again over and over. I think they're having an argument. "Girls." Two eyes peer at me, one panicked, the other stoic. That's a little unnerving. "Instead of feeling sorry for her, for me. Make the most of the time we have with her." Besides, I'm…used to people dying on me.

I gulp down the last of my bourbon, and struggle up to my feet. "Just do me a favour. I know you've been through some shit, Amber. But really…relax. You'll turn Nikos into an alcoholic."

"I'm sorry!"

**_8-8_**

* * *

I corner Tiff, grab her chair's handles, and cart her off, right into my bedroom, and lock the door.

"It's nice to see you, too." She isn't impressed with me, but I'll make it up to her.

"We have a problem."

"I got that." She gives me a look like I'm a fucking idiot.

"The name Salem mean anything to you?"

Tiff shakes her head, eyes narrowed, lips quirked up like I've gone off the deep end. "Look, Ivy. I love you. But you're being more airheaded than usual."

She's a complete basket case, but she isn't our leak. "Good. Here's the situation. Someone in here is working for the enemy."

Tiff jerks back. "But that…oh." Her eyes widen. "Ohhhhh. Fuck. That means…fuck. Then they got passed the DeWitt security."

I nod.

"That means Wenge…" She fishes out her scroll, already hammering away at it. "Signal's weak, and unstable. But it's enough for texts." Hammering, hammering, frown deepening. She bolts upright. "I got it. I'll need a console. Like now!"

I unlock the door and set my hacker loose.

You're going to regret not killing me, Salem. But putting hands on my Wenge…?

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Five_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: I honestly wasn't sure if I should put this up so soon. Because I've been working on this story like mad, but I'm nervous that my muse is just going to jump ship again, or be an airhead and turn elsewhere. So, it was either put this up, or have a buffer.  
_**

**_Meh. I figure you guys want a new chapter more. So..._**


	17. V3:C6—Learning from history

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Three, Chapter Six—Learning from history**_

_**8-8**_

* * *

"Professor."

Branwen nods to me, sipping from another bottle. The training hall teems with chaos as Teams JNPR and CFVY go berserk in a sparring match. CVFY is handing the rookie team their asses, save for Nikos, of course.

"Hey, Ive. Got a favour to ask." Sigh, of course you do.

"Are you trying to say you walked all the way over here for something other than my snark and biting sarcasm?" I give him a hurt look, hand over heart and all.

The man upends his little canteen, trying to hide his shit-eating smile, but the amusement in his eyes is a dead giveaway. "How much do you know about the silver-eyed warriors?"

I jerk back, wondering about that myself. Silver eyes, silver eyes. "Got nothing. You need me to do some digging?"

"Yeah. Ruby's gonna need some training. Especially if she wants in on all this."

"I'll get to it tonight." Hmm. If anyone's good at sniffing out snitches, it would be Branwen. The man's got a nose for bullshit, and this reeks to high heaven. "But I need something."

"Hit me."

"Someone wouldn't miss this chance." I give him a meaningful look.

"Hmm." He smiles, his eyes lit up. "One step ahead."

I nod. Then he and Ironwood already considered the possibility. Good. "I need to go into Mantle. Things need to cool down. I'm taking Em and Noir with me. Tiff's entertaining herself on the console. Do not disturb."

"You sure 'bout them?"

I nod. "Vetted for months. Tested to be sure. I'll be in touch."

"Hey. Tell Jimmy 'I told you so' for me?"

"Alright…?" I shake my head; I don't wanna know.

**_8-8_**

* * *

**"Ivory. You're en route?"** Ironwood hasn't shaved since last I saw him. And the bags under his eyes are only more pronounced.

"Ten minutes out." I nod. "What's the situation?"

**"I've been in contact with Ms Hill. Mantellians are ready to riot. She's called for a town hall, supposedly to calm things down. I need you there."**

"Understood. Branwen says he told you so. And I'll need my salary. Got plans." I cock an eyebrow, daring him to challenge me on that.

He sighs and briefly closes his eyes. **"Report to my office after the town hall. Ironwood, out."** He ends the call.

Now, let's see where I need to make a big ass entrance. **"DeWitt?" **There shouting and chanting and a whole bunch of ruckus on her end. Fuck, they're worked up.

"Hill. Coming to you. Need a location and an update."

The camera shifts from the candidate to the fucking mob. Signs against Ironwood, against Atlas, against the system. And one idiot waving a 'why are we here' sign, obviously a counter protestor—especially with the business suit. So out of place in a sawmill.

"Touché." It's the old mill on the northern edge. "En route. Warm up the crowd for me?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

Em and Noir bring us in on the snow covered landing pad, just outside the mill. The ramp lowers, but the door barely opens before the uproar reaches me. The three of us make our way down into the mill, towards the ever increasing roars of caged lions aching to be free.

We enter the ginormous building, finding the work floor littered with everything the peek promised and more. Thousands of workers, still in uniform, all facing the stage that isn't usually there as Hill preaches.

"…for a revolution! Time to take our streets back! Time for Atlas to see the power these streets wield! Are you with me?!" The cheers are almost deafening. "I can't hear you Mantle! I said! ARE YOU WITH ME?!"

The chanting starts up. Hill, Hill, Hill, Hill. I make my way up to the stage, nodding to Hill to let her know it's her shot to call.

Hill nods to me and turns to the crowd, hands raised to tell them to settle down. It takes a moment, but they do. "Now. To show you I ain't playin', I got a special speaker. Someone who's been workin' 'er magic behind the scenes. The ace up our revolution's sleeve. Mantle. Let's give a warm welcome to Ivory DeWitt!"

Crickets chirp in the background as I make my way up. Don't give a fuck, I know the score, just as they do. Hill gives me an apologetic look and motions to the mic.

"You don't like me. Didn't give a fuck then, don't give a fuck now. But it's Sunday. We all in church. So I'mma preach all the same." I grab the edge of the lectern. "It's breakfast, bitches. And I ain't got nothing but boots. What you cookin'?"

Angered grumbling starts up, stares harder than steel after a hundred-metre drop.

"I ain't here to lead, 'cause none of you gonna follow. Not me, anyway. So lemme preach you what a vote for Robyn Hill means."

The hard glares dial back to curious stares.

"We all hear the beat. And it ain't swinging. This shit ain't workin', not for Mantle. Hill ain't tryin' to change the score. Hill's composing something new. But she ain't no composer. She's the conductor, always has been."

Little nods. The harder votes to sway agree with me on that.

"That. Is why Hill came to me. She needs a batter and, in Atlas, I carry a big stick. They care about the DeWitt name, they need the power my family once held. So lemme preach why this is good for you."

Not a peep, but everyone's all ears, eyes hard and distrusting.

"I've got Ironwood in my glove box. Hill has me in hers. That means you," I motion to them with an open palm, "have the tools to start this revolution right. And I ain't talkin' no weak sauce. This is whole hog."

They don't give a shit about me, about the DeWitt name. But they know Atlas does. And it ain't the DeWitt name on the ballot, it's Hill's. Best of both worlds.

"I'm talkin' homegrown police to work our streets. I'm talkin' homegrown doctors chargin' fees we can afford. I'm talkin' equal respects for Faunus, across the board. I'm talkin' an end to Atlas yuppie shit on the viewscreens, pouring their yellow hail down our backs. I'm talkin' unions in every workplace. I'm talkin' wages that can pay our bills. I'm talkin' homegrown teachers in our schools, teaching our sprats, our history, our way. You feel me?"

Nods, no words, but they nod. I'm hitting the notes they need to hear. So what say we bring it on home?

"So here's how we're doin' it. I'm starting a new company down here. Ground up. Everything from cleaners to guards to cushy office seats to big mugs chewing out Atlas yuppies. All homegrown. All sons of the soil. And every last one of them big wig corp cunts that don't dance to Hill's beat? DeWitt Co opens a new branch. Offers all their Mantle labour better hours and pay for the same work. And we will dance to Hill's beat."

The crowd start looking around, cautiously optimistic.

"I ain't playin'. You know Hill ain't gonna dig no clouds servin' her no fool's dish. And like me or don't, you know my rep. I don't bullshit. So here and now, to my fellow sons of the soil, I preach it. This is balls to the walls. Tea time for any son'a'bitch who missteps, toe up from the floor up. I'mma compose what Hill needs, and I'mma give Hill the baton and the sheet. Let Hill conduct. And if she ain't feelin' it? I compose her something new."

Hope. Hope fills their eyes. Old friends hold hands. New friends hold their signs higher. Cheering starts up.

"Hear me, Mantle. This is Hill's game. That means, it's your game. So let's do this. Let's get her fat ass in that cushy ass cloud seat. And let's change this beat for good."

I get nothing but 'whoo' and 'yeah' and 'barbecue the bitches'.

"I ain't gonna ask if you wid me. I don't got it like that. So tease me this, Mantle. Are. You. With. Hill?"

The chanting starts up. Hill, Hill, Hill, Hill. I reach out and take Hill's hand, raising it to the ceiling to give her the mic, the stage, and the fucking victory lap while we're at it. And the crowd goes apeshit for it.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Starlight eases onto the Atlas Academy landing pad, and Noir and I disembark, letting Em take her up for a spin.

The place is everything you'd expect from Atlas tech: overdone. It's fucking huge with bright lights highlighting all the pomp I've got no patience for. But Noir and I enter just the same.

It's quiet as we enter. Not a boot out of place, the students all in their classes. It's a ghost town aching to be haunted.

Noir leads the way to a lift, nodding to the two soldiers on guard as he presses the button. We get in, alone, and Noir presses another button, taking us up. Way up.

"The General's no' goin' like ih." I snort, but can't disagree with Noir. Ironwood's gonna be up in arms from the second we walk in. And there isn't a doubt in my mind he already knows.

The door pings open and we enter another oversized ante chamber with a secretary to one side—the same woman from Blue Two. Only this time, there are eight armed guards at her beck and call.

"Lt Sgt Noir, escorting Lady DeWi' to see the general."

The woman nods and buzzes us in. Ironwood's office is, of course, too fucking huge for words. Plate glass windows from ceiling to floor overlooking Atlas, a large kitchenette with all his favoured toys. And the man himself behind an oversized desk, talking to some soldier I don't, or just can't, recognize, given I only see the mouth poking out from behind their standard issue helmet.

"And this is confirmed?" Ironwood asks, hiding the lower half of his face behind his folded hands. His eyes are hard as steel, though.

**"It is, sir!"**

"Take your unit to Section Theta. Keep me posted."

**"Understood, General Ironwood, sir!"** The soldier salutes and Ironwood ends the call.

The image blinks out as Ironwood motions for me to have a seat.

The second my gorgeous ass hits the seat, Ironwood stands and turns towards the window, back to me. "I'm not sure which is worse, Ivory. That you issued a citywide death threat," he sighs, "or that I needed Kale to translate what you said."

"You wanted Mantle handled."

He walks over to the kitchenette. "Bourbon?"

"I'm game."

"Lieutenant?"

"I'm flyin'."

Ironwood nods and brings two lowball glasses with a bottle of bourbon, pouring me a drink as he plants his ass in his seat. "I don't approve of your approach, especially with dropping my name so casually. But." He pushes a glass my way. "Reports are already filtering in. The riots we were expecting, disband on their own. I've ordered my men back to the city borders, to resume their patrols."

Chilled bourbon, no ice, pours into me—the glass hiding my knowing smile.

"So. I'll hold up my end of the bargain." He slides six cards across his desk, the data popping up to show they each hold the max of one million Lien. "I've also repurposed an old warehouse and production facility near the old market. You'll have your first order ready as soon as it's operational and secured."

I take all six cards in one swipe, stowing them in my pouch for now.

"Explain this. Who was the threat issued to, and why did it work?"

Sigh. This is why Atlas can never control Mantle. You yuppies think we dance to your tune. "Mantellians respect fighters. Robyn Hill is a fighter. But she has a lot of people in her way that thrive on the chaos. Drug dealers, gangsters, Atlesian politicians. You're handling the council, that means politicians are dealt with the Atlas way. The death threat was for the drug dealers and gangsters. They know my rep. Cross me and you push up daisies. No second chances. So. That leaves Hill to gather her supporters to do this the legal way."

"Won't that lead to gang violence?"

I snort. "No. That's why offering the jobs is key. They need food on their table. Give them a way to do that honourably? They wouldn't piss on dealing or gunslinging. Too dangerous. Now, our next move is getting the grunts with no other skills away from the shotcallers."

Ironwood folds his hands and covers the lower half of his face with them. "I'm listening."

"A rehabilitation program, in the military. We offer them a clean slate, training, and station them upon graduation in Mantle. That relieves your troops, and we get military grade police forces on the ground who know how to de-escalate tensions."

"And they'll agree to that, because…?"

"Because I'll be opening the academy for them in Mantle. You supply the trainers and the gear, and we have Hill propose it. Her words carry weight. And the grunts will have a way out their mommas will be proud of. Then we wait a few months. Any that hasn't abandoned ship are the lifers and there's no saving them."

"And…?"

"Our new troops will be honour-bound to give us the intel we need for lawful arrests. Or clean house. Either way, crime drops. Mantle is even less of an issue. And with the security upgrades, problems start to solve themselves. Provided, of course, we help Hill deliver on her promises. Keep the people of Mantle fed, clothed, warm, and their bills paid on time. It's all they care about."

"Hmm." Ironwood takes his glass and sips, mulling over what I suggest. "Even with the embargo, it would up our productivity. Perhaps we could offer scholarships for doctors, scientists, engineers. Start investing in the economy of tomorrow."

I upend my glass, holding it out for a refill. Ironwood doesn't even hesitate.

"I'll bring it up in the next council meeting. Get the ball rolling from our side. Now. About DeWitt manor and your team."

I cock an eyebrow as I bring glass to lips.

Instead of answering, Ironwood slides a new scroll across his desk. Data pops up, my data. Only, I'm not registered as a student, but as a fully licensed Huntress. I smell political bullshit, and a fuckton of it.

"You and Ms Nikos will not be allowed to take missions. But. You'll need the freedom this offers you. So you may legally engage anyone that raises arms against you, even in Atlas, provided you report any and all altercations to me personally. It also comes with the perk of taking a class of freshly graduated cadets to train, as agreed. I have the flight simulators, along with the training gear you'll need, ready for shipment."

Hmm. Political bullshit, but necessary all the same. "Aright. Give the order to have it delivered to the crypt. Twenty-hundred hours."

"Done. And this is for the restoration effort." Another six cards, each worth a million Lien. "In your scroll, you'll find a contact for a reputable architect, already vetted and pre-cleared for the project. He'll no doubt have a few designs for your approval. But I will need to personally approve of each construction worker hired on. No risks, Ivory. This needs to be perfect."

I upend my glass and clank it onto his desk, trading it for more cards—these go into my bra strap, for safekeeping. "I'll be in touch."

**_8-8_**

* * *

The lift pings open and Noir leads the way out into the second level hall. The familiar lifeless walls and corridors are filled with grunts queued up to apply for the Huntsmen programme. I stroll right alo—

"Ivy?"

An unfamiliar face—though to be fair, it's hard to recognize anyone in Atlesian battle armour. I cock an eyebrow.

The mook reaches for their helmet and removes it. The familiar face of Mitsuki Aoyama stares back at me, nervously biting her pouty lip as she fixes her frumpy black ponytail to look somewhat presentable. It doesn't help. "Where have you…It's…It's been a while."

"Orders from Ironwood." I thumb down the empty hall. "You know how he is about being punctual."

"Unn." Mitsuki nods, her cheeks flushed. "I…I hardly recognized you."

My hand reaches up for my crew cut, knowing just what she means. Sigh. "Maybe I'll see you around." I salute to her, getting a salute right back if with a quivering chin and sorrow clouding her inky eyes, and I turn walking away, my heart racing as I go.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I stand on stage, arms folded behind me as the cadets march in and file into their seats. Twenty in all. They salute, and I salute in kind.

"At ease, cadets." The mooks take their seats. "You all applied for the Huntsmen programme. Being the top ranking of the academy, you all expect to get in."

The not so subtle frowns hint they know I'm about to let them down.

"Unfortunately. The bunks have already been assigned. You're on a waiting list for drop-outs. To ensure your time isn't wasted, General Ironwood has assigned you to me for training. What that means is this: you're going to hate me."

A hand goes up. I nod to them.

"Lady DeWi'." Mantellian lilt. Interesting. "Wha're we lookin' ah?"

"What are you looking at? An excellent question. To which I will pose another. What could a licensed Huntress teach you?"

The group is all smiles. Some brighter than others.

"Make no mistake. I offer you no guarantees you'll get into the Huntsman programme. You earn that on your own merit. But. I'll be teaching you lot piloting, group and solo combat, advanced tactics, designing your own weapon, designing a fighting style for said weapon, honing your aura, unlocking your Semblance. And that's just to warm you grunts up."

Each of the mooks grins, liking the sound of that.

"This is not a mandatory programme. Meaning, I can and will boot you the second I find you a lost cause. Meaning, some of you will simply filter into rank and file, if with a hell of a resume. Meaning, you can walk away at any time—should you be offered your shot at the Huntsman programme, say."

Another hand goes up. I nod to them.

"Will you be overseeing the programme?" I know that voice. Mitsuki.

"I will. Understand that General Ironwood will be inspecting your progress reports, personally. That means if I see anything I consider bullshit, you'll be out on your ass before Ironwood even gets the report. That includes, but is not limited to, prejudice against other cadets. Whether based on being Faunus," I nod to the gerbil-looking buck tooth mook, "sex," I nod to Mitsuki, "or heritage," I nod to the one with the Mantellian lilt, "is that clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Good. Gather your things and meet me on the landing pad at fifteen-hundred and thirty hours. Dismissed."

**_8-8_**

* * *

DeWitt Manor. I really did a number on the place. All the above-ground floors are gone. Only the entry arch and the two doors depicting the 'humble' coronation remain, if charred. The rest…all ashes.

It didn't hurt at the time. Too focused on sending the message loud and clear. Now…?

Worker droids shovel up the ashes, the remains of my shattered past, and discarding them all into a huge ass dumpster what's-his-face arranged. He threw his name a half dozen times, didn't bother to catch it.

The meditation garden is filled with backs of sand, rocks, and concrete, with iron beams, with powered down droids just waiting for construction to begin in earnest.

"This will be absolutely perfect," Architect assman says, looking around as he waves his oversized scroll around to show how the place will look once construction is done. Four levels, with fancy windows and little cushioned alcoves…the place looks like a palace, I suppose. "And with the droids working around the clock, it'll be done post-haste, Lady DeWitt. Oh, my name will go down in history for designing the new symbol of the Old Kingdom!"

Bragging rights. Son of a bitch didn't even want Lien for the job, just his name on it. And with the Ace-Ops cunts stalking his dumb ass, I don't doubt Ironwood will know if he wipes his ass properly.

"Come, Lady DeWitt. Come see your new manor in all its splendour."

"I'm behind schedule. Out."

Instead of complaining, he bows and I phase his dumb ass through the rusted iron gates. Sigh.

I hate this part.

I close the old doors grab the golden bell tongue, tugging it down. The doors swing open on their own, only, instead of seeing droids sweeping away, a large candlelit hall, with books stacked to the ceiling.

For the first time in…a while…a DeWitt's footfalls echo through the dusty old library. The doors slam shut behind me and Noir.

Sigh. I always hated this place.

Silver eyes. Silver eyes. Doesn't ring a bell, but if Branwen is so gung-ho about it, it'll be in A Tale of Ole Warriors. Or Bloodlines Bewitched, I'll start there.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I enter the store, nodding to the clerk behind the counter as I approach. "Good morning, Lady DeWitt. Welcome to our humble establishment. Can I offer you some tea, perhaps?"

Sigh. This is what I get for hoping. But I need to restock Starlight. "No tea, just the—"

"Ivy?!" Yukie comes running out from the back, her eyes wide as her grin as she tackles me. Fucking hell, I was just barely getting used to it with the Faunus in my life.

"Ms Aoyama! I don't b—"

I hold my hand up to silence the clerk, wrapping my free arm around the tiny one. "It's good to see you, Yukie."

"Gods, where have you been? Mitsuki's been beside herself! First the tales of—"

"It's a long story. And I'm too sober to tell it."

Yukie pulls back, tears in her eyes as she nods. "I…yeah, sorry…that…should have been obvious."

"Listen. I need a metric fuckton of dust, crystals, materials. The works."

Yukie's eyes widen, but she schools herself quickly. "I can't hook you up, not without a full license, but we have a wide range of decorative…"

She finally notices my shit-eating grin as I fish out my new scroll and load my data, showing it to her.

Yukie groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Figures. Alright, that means you get full access and twenty percent off. What're we looking at?"

My grin only widens. "Do you deliver?"

"Only within city limits, but yes."

**_8-8_**

* * *

We exit the dust shop, suitcase filled with thousands of Lien worth of powdered dust dragged by the handle in one hand, and briefcase in the other, brimming with uncut crystals. Quite frankly, I didn't want these delivered, not trusting the yuppies they'll no doubt send.

So I drag my purchases along, through the streets of Atlas, towards the landing platform where Em knows to meet us. My hood's up, rendering my surroundings. I don't like all the eyes on me, but Noir shifts his Viper into rifle-form and slams a drum-mag into her ass to show the reception they'll receive, should anyone try something.

It isn't a tense journey, per se, but it's one that has me nervous all the same.

"Hey, mister!" Some brat calls out, his nose pointing to us. "You got…" The boy trails off when Noir glares his way, and rushes off down an alley.

Atlas has hustlers, too? Probably some group snuck in from Mantle, looking for fresh marks.

Curiously, there's a few nancies standing on the corner of a street bathed in red lighting, batting their eyelashes and me and flaunting their goods. That their coochie didn't catch a cold in this weather…

We walk right passed, and into an alley that should be a shortcut. We're on a schedule, after all.

Some gangbangers stand outside a newly opened café, boasting of an opening sale, with the all too familiar shotcallers glaring at us as we pass. Oh shit. Some of them are abandoning ship in Mantle, trying to gain a foothold here? Didn't see that coming.

We pass them just the same. They eye my baggage, of course, but none are dumb enough to try anything.

"I said," a clapping sound, followed by a pained yelp, "where's my money?" Some sugar daddy-type smacking his girl about—probably a pimp, but not dressed as such. Well, that's illegal. I turn right the fuck around and head their way. The man's eyes widen as we approach—not surprise, but glee. "My Lord. A pleasure to meeting your acquaintance. How can my girls do you this fine day?"

I stand my suitcase up, balance my briefcase atop it, and kick him in the face, slamming him against the building and knocking him the fuck out. Lowering my hood, I take in the girl he just slapped around, her bloodied nose and quivering chin, her eyes dark brown and pupils looking like needle points. Drugged out of her mind, no doubt.

I unholster Moon and put a hole in the supposed pimp's hand, the same one that slapped the girl. Unsurprisingly, Atlesian soldiers come running at the sound of gunfire, rifles at the ready to handle whatever they discover. I engage the safety and holster Moon as I fish out my scroll and load my data, showing them I'm licenced.

"We've got a confirmed prostitution ring outside of the red light sector. Girls are drugged up. And I suspect the supplier is not two windows up. Newly opened café."

"Understood, sir!" the mooks salute and call it in.

"If I'm needed, report it to General Ironwood. He knows where to find me."

"Sir, yes, sir!" The mook salutes again, while his buddy cuffs the supposed pimp, and another pair head into the brothel to see to the girls. Curiously, two Huntsmen come running, taking charge of the situation and barging into the brothel—one stops to help the woman. If that isn't handled, I don't know what is.

I grab my baggage, turn heel, and simply continue on my way, though I make sure to glare at the gangbangers and their shotcallers as I go.

"Hands behind your head! NOW!"

I stop, turning to look over my shoulder. With my hood down, I can't see behind me, but this way the gangbangers know I'll kick their ass if they put up a fight.

My scroll rings just as the cunts put their hands behind their heads and go quietly, even the shotcallers don't resist. Good. I stand my suitcase and fish my scroll out.

**"Ivory. I said no missions."**

"I didn't take a mission."

Ironwood sighs. **"I have a hard time believing that."**

"I'm behind schedule. DeWitt, out." I hang up and move right along, baggage in hand.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Em brings us in on the Atlas Academy landing pad, with the cadets already standing at attention with their bags on the ground beside them. Of course, Ironwood comes storming out, with his secretary on his six.

I exit as soon as the ramp lowers, with Noir on my flank.

Curiously, Ironwood doesn't approach, so I go about my business. "Bags go on the bunks. Twelve seats, so eight of you will be standing. Make a mess aboard my ship, and you'll be skydiving without a parachute." I salute the cadets, and they salute right back. "All aboard."

The twenty of them line up, bags in hand, and march right in. As the last of them boards, some crazy bitch in a qipao drops right out of the sky between me and Ironwood. From the twin pistols on her thighs, I'm guessing a Huntress. I like her already. Schnee comes out of the Academy, exchanges a few words with Ironwood, trade salutes, and she comes my way.

The woman rights herself, showing off three-inch wedge heels as she stands at attention and salutes. "General Ironwood, sir."

"I'll debrief you inside. Good work, Jiang."

"Lady DeWitt. Permission to come aboard?" Schnee salutes me. Obviously she's to relieve Branwen. Or just wants to see her sister. Either way's fine, I suppose.

"Granted." I salute. "You'll ride in the cockpit." Schnee walks right up and into the ship, already shouting at the cadets over something I don't bother decode. I like her.

The woman turns to me, and salutes me as well as her features rearrange themselves into a familiar face. It's the same woman that got smacked around earlier—clearly she was undercover. Fuck, respect. I'd never have the patience to let some worthless trash smack me around.

I salute right back and turn heel.

"DeWitt."

Halting, I look over my shoulder.

"How'd you know I requested extraction?"

"I didn't." I walk right up the ramp and into Starlight. The cadets are in their seats, with eight of them holding the overhead loops. "This is your last chance to bow out gracefully."

Not one of the mooks makes a move. So I close the door.

"Noir."

My shadow makes his way over to the cockpit. We lift off before the door even closes behind him.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Professor Branwen is at the foot of the ramp as I disembark. The not so subtle frown tells me he doesn't bear good news.

The cadets pour out of Starlight and line up without prompting. Noir, Em, and Schnee are the last to exit, and Em closes her up.

"Cadets." The mooks salute, knowing their hell is about to begin. "I am Ivory DeWitt. With me is Lt Sgt Noir, trainee Huntsman Eminence Neon, Professor and Huntsman Qrow Branwen. Winter Schnee, I assume needs no introduction. These are the first faces you'll need to learn not to piss off, but are not the only ones. Em, you mind showing them to the barracks?"

"Sure thing, Ive." Em grins, enjoying himself a little too much as he leads the mooks deeper into the complex. I palm the interface, shutting the hangar door, and turn to Branwen.

"It's not a Vale team."

I nod. Meaning it's Team FNKI, or…no, it can't be Sage or the Bruins. And the guard we brought along passed Ironwood's inspection already. "I'll handle it." Come what may, I'm not giving Salem a foothold in this place.

"Handle what, exactly?" Branwen asks, cocking his eyebrow.

"Actually." Schnee steps up. "That's why I'm here. General's orders."

I nod. Not unexpected, really. "Let's just get one thing straight, Schnee. I call the shots here. You do nothing without my explicit permission."

"Understood, Lady DeWitt." Schnee salutes.

"What are your orders, exactly?"

"To train all Huntsmen present, trainee or otherwise. To aid in the training of cadets as needed. To root out a plausible leak, and handle them accordingly." I nod, liking the sound of that.

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

"Good. Then you hereby have full permission to execute those orders." I salute my superior, smirking to let her know I'll be pissing her off on a regular basis while here. "And drop the formalities."

"As you wish." Schnee nods. "Any leads?"

"Plenty." Branwen nods. "But none that have worked out. Vale's teams I know well enough. They aren't it. Tulip's been cackling to herself from the security room. I figure she's got something."

"I'll start there," I say. But how to make the most of this? "Schnee, if you play the part of the worried big sister? They might drop their guard."

"Doubtful." Schnee discards it out of hand. In other words, her rep is of the militant hardass, and she doubts anyone would buy it. Noted. "But worth taking into consideration. I'd like to hear what Ms Tulip has to say first."

"Makes sense to me." Branwen upends his canteen, gulping the last of its content. "Besides. She's got a drink with my name on it."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Tiff is having a field day. All ten of the consoles display source code I make no sense of, but she just wheels herself from one to the next, cackling more and more as she goes. I close the door and palm the interface so this will be a private conversation.

"Ive! You won't believe the shit I've dug up!"

Leave it to Tiff. Give her a console and a goal? I shiver. The girl's obsessed.

"At first, I was getting nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Because the signal is so shitty out here, no one even bothers with their scroll other than taking selfies."

"Selfies?" Schnee asks, confused.

"Yeah. Pictures of themselves? It was mostly Coco, so easy enough to filter through, especially since she's mostly training. But. There's this one that keeps trying to make calls every chance they get. Never the same number, but always Atlesian. Thing is, there's a pattern. They get a text, with some gibberish. They call the number back, but it's always disconnected. They try to call a new number, but the signal drops. Here, lemme show you."

Tiff wheels herself over to one of the consoles, and cues up a sound bite.

**"Daddy?"** Holly. I know that voice anywhere. Another sound bite, exactly the same. Exactly the same. Like on repeat, except Tiff loads different files each time.

"Ilex Holly," Schnee says, confirming it. "Her records show an obsession with looking for someone, but we've nothing on file as to whom."

"Her biological parents gave her up for adoption," I say. "The Hollys adopted her when she was…maybe six. She never said much about her life before coming to Mantle. Not even wherefrom."

"Oh, yeah. I already tracked that down. She's from the slums of Mistral. Her mom worked a bar there, no record of the dad, but—"

"How the hell did you manage that?" I ask. With Vale Tower down, there's no connection to much of anywhere.

"Her social media. She updates it religiously. It's a basic bot, though. Not even a good one." Tiff wheels over to another console, loading up Holly's accounts—ten different social media sites, all filled with pictures of herself and her team. "Here's the thing. And I'd appreciate it if a certain airhead didn't interrupt me again. She doesn't post any pictures of where we are. Not even a mention. Except, for one string of messages to a businessman from Mistral, who keeps asking where she is, but that's mostly two bots chatting with each other, like an automated sex line."

Mistral, huh. Could be anyone claiming they're from Mistral.

"Goes by the name Leo L. Get this, his picture's hers with a masculinizing filter over it."

Leo L.? I look to Branwen. He nods, agreeing it could be Headmaster Lionheart. So we have our leak. But this feels a thousand different kinds of off.

"Here's the thing. That isn't who keeps calling her. I've traced he calls. They're Atlas numbers, but they're not in Atlas." She moves to another console again. This time a map of Solitas loads, showing a trail of Xs graphed with time of message, time of call, and location. It's an almost drunken path, leading north from Mantle. They're using Holly like a homing beacon.

"I'm guessing you have more?"

"I do." Tiff wheels round to another console and loads another sound bite.

**"Ilex? Hello? Can you hear me, baby?"**

Male. In his twenties, maybe. Not her father, then. Sugar daddy, maybe? But again, it's a bunch of the same sound bites in a dozen different files.

No, not sugar daddy. The Hollys aren't rich, but they give her everything she needs. Boyfriend? Possible. "She got anything about a love interest in her—"

"Now you're catching on!" Tiff rolls back to the console with the social media feeds, and brings up a series of party pics, each time there's a guy dancing with Holly. In his twenties. Human, pale skin, blond hair slicked back. Hmm. Dunno the face, but that's one hell of a suit—rich boy, no doubt. His eyes smile, though. Curious.

Tiff takes one of the pictures and crops it for only his face, and runs it through a search engine, getting a few hundred hits. Each time it's a party, each time a different girl he's dancing with. All rich girls, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes, not like it did in his pictures with Holly.

Romeo and Juliette? Could be. But why take the risk and run out into the snow like that? And what's with the obvious trail leading back to them. Even one slip up and they're toast.

"Mentions of where she is. You said he knows?"

"Uh huh." Tiff switches back to the tab with Holly's social media, and loads the messages.

_Baby, where are you? I miss you so bad._

_We're not supposed to talk about it, you know that._

_Come on. Since when do we keep secrets?_

_I'm serious, Leo! My friend would have a fit. And not the pretty kind._

_Baby! Are you cheating on me?_

_What, no! It's just that she made me swear not to tell._

_Come on. I won't tell if you won't? You know you want to, baby. Do it for daddy?_

_It's Ivory._

_The DeWitt bitch?_

_Well, yeah? Do I know any other Ivory?_

_You're in the DeWitt family crypt! Baby, you've got to get me in!_ That's a strange leap in logic. Scripted perhaps?

_Are you nuts! I knew I shouldn't have told you! Ivory's the only one that can get anyone in or out! And she'd kill me if she found out!_

_No she won't. You two go way back, don't you?_

_Yeah, so? Daddy, her best friend is in the next room! She'd burn down half the planet to keep him safe!_

_You know I won't hurt him, baby. Come on. I miss you so bad._

They go back and forth, him trying to convince her, her saying no.

"How'd he know it was here?"

"Huh? Oh that. Days ago. She told him about the funeral, described the place pretty well, too. Like spooky well. He could have made a map if he wanted to kind of well."

Hmm. Only people who've been here would recognize it. Over time, that number would have ballooned, especially with royal funerals of old. But that narrows it down to old-world gentry and up.

"Why would she describe it that well?" I ask.

"He wouldn't stop pestering her until she did. Made it some kind of pervy make out session via texts, and that wasn't bots either. Thing is, he never mentioned coming to see her. Only that he has a big surprise, and that she'll love it."

"You're not worried?" Branwen asks.

"Not in the least. The route he's taking? He'll make it to the cliffs, maybe. If he's foolish enough to try climbing it, security measures kick in."

"And kill him?"

"If I want it to." I cock an eyebrow, asking him why he's surprised.

"Thereby creating a potential leak in the long run." Schnee pinches her chin.

Wait a minute. Holly doesn't type that proper. "Tiff. Hack the scroll. I need visual confirmation."

"No prob." Tiff wheels back to the first console, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. "She's been pretty consistent, so it shouldn't take too long."

A picture loads. A bed, from a distant angle, like the scroll's set up to record something there. Sage and Holly, cozied up in my bedroom, in my bed. That…no, that doesn't mean anything. Sage likes cuddling with people.

"Call's coming in again."

The feed loads. Two of them, side by side. Sage grabs the scroll and snuggles up with Holly, all cosy and shit. Both topless. And no hint there's a stich covering the lower half.

**"Sis?"** Sage smiles, warm and disarming as she reaches for the scroll.

**"I'm close."** The woman is out in a blizzard, with a team with her, including the rich little shit from the pictures—I assume, given he's the only one dressed up like an Eskimo. **"Two hours."**

**"The only way in is the hangar bay. She leaves it open after a ship enters. Is mom with you?"**

**"No."** The call ends.

The messages on the social media site start up again. Back to the flirty undertones.

"Got a hit on the woman. Ebony Delftenaar. White Fang recruiter. The others in the background? All Delftenaars. Here's the kicker. Our prince charming? His last message was to his father, bragging about how he tricked 'some beasts' into granting him access to a treasure trove, and how he's going to bring his mother a souven—"

I palm the security interface, exiting without a word.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I phase through my bedroom door. The sound of giggling and surprised yelps assaults my ears, but I don't bother with them. I simply pick up the scroll set on a stand. It's recording.

Press stop, and the recording saves to file. It's over an hour long. I check the segmented screenshots. Looks like a sextape.

"Isn't this cosy."

Both girls freak, slamming against the wall on the other side of my bed as I press play.

**"Ive. Ebony's accepted me back into the pack. They're coming to get me out, but I wanted to leave you something to remember me by. Maybe next time, you'll appreciate a good thing when you find it." **

The in-film Sage backs up and Holly peels her top off, tossing it aside without a care.

I toss the scroll up in the air, and bisect it mid-air with sword-Sun. "How long?"

"Ive, I'm—"

"How. Long."

"They-contacted-me-in-Atlas, before-the-battle."

"Then why come here?" I ask, Sun frozen in place from the cut. "You could have stayed in Atlas, said you wanted out."

"I…" Sage tears up, shaking her head side to side.

"You…?"

"Ivy, it's—"

My nose snaps to Holly, she jerks back so fast she slams her head against the wall. "Sage. Why. Come. Here?"

"Ebony…she…she asked me to. Said the security in Mantle would be too tight. That she'd never get in."

"How'd you know we'd come here?"

"I didn't. Ebony just said to come with you. Said she'd find us, bring me home."

"Oh really?" I smile. Like I've just up and lost my fucking mind kind of smile. "Alright. I'll make you a deal. I'll let them in. If you leave peaceably, I'll have nothing to say about it. Deal?"

Sage nods, over and over and over, like she's going to make herself seasick.

**_8-8_**

* * *

My hood up, winter jacket on, to up the range. Hand on the security interface, keeping the security measures from mauling the intruders as they approach. Hangar is wreathed in darkness, awaiting the flies, to make them feel all cosy. The hangar door opens the second they're close enough, and they sneak in, all stealthy-like.

I leave the door open behind them and turn on just one light, showing Sage and Holly sitting on a loveseat in the middle, with their bags packed at their feet and ready to go.

"Ebony." Sage calls out for her sister, and the whole pack run to her.

"Sage." The elder sister pulls her sister up from the couch, into her embrace. The brothers nudge them away from the outsider, sniffing the air, curious about something. "It's been insane out there. Come on, we need to get you out of here. Quick, before they notice."

"Unn." Sage nods, grabs her bags, and they leg it for the exit.

"Where do you think you're going? I paid for—"

"Your problem," one of the brothers growls out. "We got our treasure."

I close the door, well before any of them get to it.

Sage shrieks, a click south of a full on anxiety attack. "You said we could leave!"

Snake-Sun slashes out in the dark, right through the rich boy's legs, above the knees. He falls, screeching in absolute panic. But Holly doesn't make a sound, just wipes her tears.

"I did." The others pile into the room, hemming the intruders in. The Delftenaars surround Sage and Ebony, guard them. I nod, knowing all I need to. I flick snake-Sun this way and that, before reeling her in and wiping off the blood in the dress Sage wore the night of the party in Beacon. "You've upheld your end of the bargain, as will I. But you'll never make it on foot."

I unholster Moon, and put a bullet in the rich boy's hands, both of them. That I also get his new stumps is a bonus.

"Cadets. Take that one to Dr Pickles. Ensure that he's kept alive. But if you have to break a few bones to ensure compliance, I'll report it as my doing." Two of my mooks take Mr Leo L. by the arms and stumps, dragging him deeper into the complex.

"Just let us go. We'll never bother you or yours. We just want to be together. As a pack." Ebony holds out her empty palms, trying to calm me. "We're wolves. We can handle a little chill."

"Had you asked me, I would have flown Sage wherever she wished. Your pack included. But. Such is life." I palm the interface and open the hangar door. "You have thirty minutes to get to the base of the cliffs. After that, the security system goes live."

"That's not enough time!" Sage begs for a kinder fate than she's earned.

"It's what you get." I stare, unmoving, unmoved. "Twenty-nine minutes and forty seconds."

They don't wait, they just leave. Even when Sage tries to turn to me, to say something, her sister drags her along.

When they're outside, I close the hangar door, keeping my palm on the interface as I track their descent.

A clap sounds out, a frightened mouse's eep follows. "What about this one?" Em asks.

"Trying to focus." I carefully disengage each trap as they approach, and re-engage as they pass. They're not going to make it, not at this speed. Especially not with all the shit I bought Sage—and I made damn sure to check that's all she was taking with her, if including her scroll-halves; she'll have to figure out something on her own, lacking ID as she is. Not killing her and hers is all the mercy I have to offer.

Thirty minute mark, they've another two-hundred metres to go. And that's discounting the hundred metre drop. Still, I keep disengaging the traps, letting them pass. They make it to the cliff, and they jump in, Ebony holding her sister as they go and sharing her aura to guard her.

The lot of them survive the fall, but Sage's things are lost somewhere in the encroaching storm.

_Leave them!_ Ebony barks out, if I read her lips right. She and her pack truly only came for Sage. So why didn't you just…ask me? I've denied you nothing. Nothing. Everything I had to give, I gave.

Sage looks up at the mountain she just literally jumped off and mouths, _Thank you_. Should I laugh? Cry? Get stupid drunk and pretend this never happened?

"You think she knows it's almost been forty minutes?" Em asks.

"She knows." Tiff sounds sure.

My hand drops limp at my side.

You're wrong. I knew what I had. I just couldn't risk you getting caught up in this. I couldn't risk you knowing about the secrets I keep, for your own sake.

I stumble towards the couch and collapse into it. Holly is wise enough to shy away, but there just isn't enough space for her to go far.

"You have sixty seconds," it's just words "to convince me this was his doing." No inflection, no emotion, just hollow words.

"Ivy, I…I…"

"Fifty seconds."

Tears. Sobs. 'I love him's. Pleas for me not to kill her.

Everything I have no use for.

When the timer hits zero…

I stand.

"I won't kill you."

"You…won't?"

"No. Because you're going to be the boy's nurse." You're going to stay with him. When he tells you he hates you. When he blames you for what happened to him. When all he has to offer is bitterness. You'll stay with him. And you'll know, the entire time, it was your fault. That all of this is your fault. "Be mindful of suicide attempts." Pampered little shit that he is, it won't take long. Days maybe. Do be sure you don't blink. Or his suicide will also be your fault.

I walk. I know not whereto.

"Noir. When the boy's stabilized. Return him and Holly to Atlas. Deliver them to Ironwood with a full report. My only stipulation is that they not be separated. Not even for the surgery he undergoes."

Live with it, Holly. With your failings, your insecurities, the mistakes you now know you made.

Live with the monsters in your head, as I.

It's a punishment beyond mere death.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I sit.

By the fire.

Tongues of flame dance to the crackling beat.

I sit.

Alone.

Bourbon my only comfort. This empty hall my only company. The others sleep, or ought to. Last I bothered check, it was the wee hours of the morning. Sleep doesn't come. Not any restful form of it, anyway.

My bed smells of her. Of her tryst. Of her betrayal.

Even after removing the linens, the pillowcases. It all smells of her; mattress, pillows, the room itself.

The last few weeks keep repeating in my head. Going over everything. Trying to find my misstep. Trying to see it through her eyes.

Was it me sending her to Atlas? Returning to Vale without her? We spoke of it at length. Why I had to go, why she shouldn't. I offered her to go anyway, with the warning that I couldn't protect her. She chose to stay in Atlas, promising to help Mrs Bee around the house, if I hurry back to her.

That wasn't it.

Was it my being so swept up with Wenge? Surely, that can't be it. Who would begrudge a time to mind their best friend? Especially in such a state. No, if that's it, I'm better off without her.

Did we not spend enough time together? We slept in the same bed every night—not that I could sleep without her to quiet the nightmares. She even made a joke about me needing her as badly I she needed me to sleep.

No, that can't be it either.

Was it the funeral? She came with us into the crypt. Perhaps I hadn't explained well that none without blood relation could journey the final steps with me, lest Anu awaken the guardian statues? No. No, Kale explained that none but a DeWitt could venture deeper. And I was in sight.

Not that either.

Was it something I said while drunk? I don't remember. There are no gaps, no blackouts, though I don't remember saying much to her then. To anyone. Was I too distant? No. She's seen me drunk time and again. She knows what I'm like.

Perhaps my drinking stirred painful memories? Maybe she just didn't want to grow old with a drunkard?

Why didn't you just…

Just talk…

Maybe that's it. Why talk to someone who won't talk to you?

**_8-8_**

* * *

I pace. The cadets fail at flying. They're all registered pilots, but I have it set to my kind of difficulty, swarms of Grimm and random spawns in their cargo bays and all.

Yet, I pace. I don't correct them, I don't instruct them. I merely walk, checking their progress. I need to know what I'm working with, temperament and all.

The training hall fills with digital renditions of explosions, of live strings of muttered curses under their breath.

But they don't give up. Not once. Each time their digital lives fizzle out, I order them to try again, never once missing a beat. I don't call their names—don't know them, save Aoyama's.

"Fuck!"

"Again, mook." That's all they are. Mooks. Underlings. Outsiders.

"Oh, yeah! I'd like to see you survive this shit!"

"Cadets! Fall in!"

They all but drop out of their seats, rushing to line-up. More than a few pitying glances are thrown the way of the idiot dumb enough to offer backchat.

"Cadet kiss-ass here thinks I cannot survive what I put you through. Any share the notion?"

"Sir, no, sir!" Too quick a response. They say what they think I want to hear.

I move to one of the sims and hop into the seat. "Anyone who wants to see proof, come. If you're confident, back to training."

Unsurprisingly, more than a few of them gather round as I unload the pilot, as I load my profile, as I start the sim on the same settings, with the same bullshit.

I spin the Gatling, making sure I remember the controls properly for a Bullhead. A barrel roll, a loop-d-loop. It all responds as I remember. Good.

The delivery mission to Argus turns into a hellscape. Nevermores by the dozen, leviathans lurking in the depths, firing up their flames at me. The dumb ass bee things I never bothered to learn the name of.

The digital ship spins and whirls, avoiding the worst of it as I snipe off each and every little cunt in my crosshairs.

None of them made it passed fifty seconds. I land the bitch in in Argus Airport hangar.

The debriefing loads, showing my accuracy rating. I pay none of it any mind as I save it to file, unload the mission, unload the pilot, and step out of the sim. Each and every mook stands round, staring with eyes wide and jaws low.

"You learn, or you die. I choose to live. Now get back to training, shit for brains!"

**_8-8_**

* * *

The firing range is little better than a battlefield. I don't know what the fuck they did in the academy, but this isn't firing. It's itching to feed the Grimm.

Each round, their accuracy is twenty percent, fifty percent. One of them gets a seventy two, and takes a long moment to brag.

"You think you're hot shit?" I glare at the cock nibbler. "Rifle."

The mook trembles as he hands me his standard issue piece of shit—the pew-pew kind that 'never runs out'. I go to his same range, load my profile, crank up the number of hovering targets, set their paths even more random, and lower the margin of error—bull's eye or bust.

Rifle snaps to shoulder, and I take a single shot to test the kickback. It goes over the target, and the fuck-wads all make 'ooh' sounds as if I'm no better.

I lower the muzzle, correcting for kickback, and I set the bitch to auto-fire. Opening fire, a steady stream of blaster fire rains on the targets.

A loud beep. My stats load. Ninety-two percent accurate.

I unload my profile and turn to the properly cowed little shits.

"Learn, or die." I toss the mook his rifle. "Back to training, ass-wipes!"

**_8-8_**

* * *

The mooks are all flagging by now. I've run their asses ragged all fucking day, letting them rest only for breakfast and lunch.

But I don't let up.

I stand in the sparring ring with the mooks encircling me. "You. Sixty seconds!"

The mook charges in, sword in hand as he tries to cut me a new hole to breathe from. I tap his sword-tip with sword-Sun's and tap my knee against his gut. Not hard enough to hurt, just to get the point across. Dad would have broken one of my ribs for that level of fuck up, if not for my aura.

He backs up and tries another approach. I meet his downward slash and slide my blade down to his hilt, piercing the air beside his head, almost nicking his ear.

Again he comes, over-swinging this time. I duck under the blow and slip sword-sun between his thighs, just barely not cutting his crotch.

"Time!" The mook bows, sheathing his sword as he goes back to line-up. "You think this is about sparring? Hitting them first? This is about killing them without them killing you."

The mooks nod, fire in their eyes as they realise, perhaps for the first time, just what I'm trying to do here.

"You. Sixty seconds!" The next one comes in, doing some kind of fancy faint, pressing their blade against mine and slipping the back edge of their sword-tip into my personal space. Not bad. "Better. But." I step into their blow and slip my sword-tip near their face. They scratch me, but my aura keeps me safe just the same. "Kill them. **Without**. Dying. Only move in for the kill if their blade is in no position to touch you or your allies. Nothing else is worth it." I step back, and motion for them to try again.

The mook comes for me, a straightforward lunge, sword way over-extended but keeping their distance from me. I rap sword-Sun against the tip, sending their blade low and away, and flash a kick just over their head.

"Never over-extend. Not worth the risk."

Mookie-mook backs up and tries again, this time fainting high. My blade moves to defend, and they try to kick me in the shin. I bring up my leg to block the blow.

"Now. We're learning."

**_8-8_**

* * *

The cadets collapse into the cushioned thrones, almost diving into their plates to fill the hole in their gut. Noir isn't much better—he's been getting the same treatment, after all.

I eat every bite, down my bourbon, and stand. "Mrs Bee. Thanks."

"Ivy, baby. You've been running yourself ragged. Take it easy? For me?"

"I've been running them ragged. I need to train."

Incredulous stares follow me out.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Nikos and I sit side by side as Aunt Petunia eases into her old rocking chair, brought in just for our lesson.

My bedroom is sealed, so that none will ever hear what she has to say, save us two. Poor Noir didn't have enough kick to even stand after dinner, so I'm letting him sit this out.

"The Four Maidens. We are as the seasons. Each season holds its own unique meaning, unique power. But. No two seasons are alike. I cannot teach you your power, only show you what you might become."

I nod.

"Autumn. Is a time to reap what you have sown. A time for leaves to brown and fall away. For storms to come, and to go. Perhaps yours will be an autumn of storms, perhaps one of bountiful harvests."

What of winter, then? What does winter mean?

"Winter. Is a time of reflection, and gratitude. A time to gather your beloved inside, out of the cold. For harsh snowstorms, for hail. For warm cacao by the hearth. Perhaps yours will be a winter of solitude, perhaps one of tales shared by firelight."

I rub my thumb, eyes downcast.

"Only once you come to terms with who, with what, you truly are, can your powers ever bloom and bring light to the season you inherit. But. If darkness were to cloud your heart. Only the downsides of your season will be reaped. For Autumn, fire. For Winter, death."

Death. Not life. Just as my path has been. She fears I'll be worse than grandmother in her youth, if the tales I've read are half true.

"Choose wisely, young Maidens. But do not fret. Seasons come, and they go. So, too, shall each of your autumns, each of your winters, be unique unto themselves. Such is the nature of things."

**_8-8_**

* * *

What does winter mean to me?

"Mind the Gs, dumbass. You're dead if you pass out."

What kind of Winter am I to be?

"Are you drunk? Shooting that bad will only earn you a body bag."

Tales by the fire?

"Oy! You see that big ass leviathan? It's wants to fry your brains. Stop letting it!"

Or storms burying entire villages in hail?

"It's evasive manoeuvres, not a fucking ballet! The point is to keep them from killing you long enough to gut them!"

What am I? Who am I?

"No, dumbass! If you're going that damn fast, then banking hard is a good way to puree your skull!"

I'm a bitch. So I guess winter of solitude is for the best.

**_8-8_**

* * *

I sit by the fire.

Alone.

It's better alone.

Perhaps that's why I survived.

So winters can once again become solitary affairs.

"Why are you out here by yourself?" Mitsuki asks.

"Didn't think you could still move after I floored you."

"Liar. You pulled your punch at the last second. You always do."

Leave me alone, Mitsuki. I'll just drive you away, too, like everyone else. It's all I'm good for.

Bourbon bottle kisses my lips. My consolation burns the back of my throat as it pours down and settles into my stomach.

"You were in love?"

I snort. "Your ego hasn't dimmed much."

"With Sage Delftenaar."

Sigh. "Does it matter?"

Soft clapping of jackboots grow louder. "Maybe it does." The groan of Aunt Petunia's armchair, the cushioning shifts.

"It doesn't hurt less."

"So let it out."

Sigh. "You've been talking to Aunt Petunia."

"And Mrs Bruin. And Tawny. And Eminence. And Tiffany. Hell, even Rose and the Schnee sisters are more talkative than you these days."

"Getting Rose to shut up is a challenge in the best of times."

"They left a week ago."

Sigh. So that's why Branwen gave me back the book.

"With Branwen. Half of Team Juniper. And what's left of Team Ruby, they left too. Have a thing, they said. Didn't want to disturb you."

Whatever.

"You haven't noticed, have you."

So what if I didn't. It's not like I'll be allowed to go with them. No matter how strong I've become, I'm still just that helpless little cunt crying herself to sleep because she misses her mommy.

"Christmas is coming up. Just another month."

"So?"

"So?" She huffs, annoyed with me "I'm dragging you to the festival."

"We have training to do."

"Yes." Her hand reaching out.

I pull away.

"We do have to train, Ivy. But we also have to live. Come with me?"

You can't survive if you're weak.

"Please?"

I stand, upending my bottle as I head out.

"Stop running, Ivory! Or all you'll ever do is run!"

Stop chasing ghosts, and I won't have to run.

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Six_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Guys. I apologize from now what is going to happen in the next chapter. It's not something you can't predict, it's something I knew from the start would happen. But it just hurt to write it.  
_**

**_So yeah. Uh. I hope you have tissue handy._**


	18. V3:C7—Winter falls

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Three, Chapter Seven—Winter falls**_

_**8-8**_

* * *

"Noir?" A hollow tone fills Starlight's kitchen as the printer churns out another piece of armour. Hands grip the pistol drum-mag, smoothened to perfection. Sigh. This'll never get done if I keep being a petulant little cunt. "Nevermind."

Box of recently crafted sixty mille fire-rounds drags nearer. One by one, rounds clip into the magazine, filling it to capacity—one-twenty strong.

"I shouldn't o' le' you go." Such simple words, per the norm, but the certainty, the devotion, touches me all the same.

Sigh. "It was my—"

A weight on my shoulder, the warmth of his hand. Rounds click in, filling the mag; a red sticker marks it. Another prepared drum magazine sets aside, with a dozen others.

"Don' be sorry, be worth ih."

"I just…" Tears sting my eyes. Tears of frustration, of fear, of a lifetime of regrets that hang around my neck like a noose, tightening a little more each time I breathe. "Nothing."

Gloved hands reach out, wrest my grip from the ever-present distractions I seek. He turns me to him, gently petting me and letting me hide from the world in his arms. I find myself on my knees, face buried in his chest as it all comes crashing down.

I don't want to be alone, but I can't bear losing anyone else. I don't want to be the next Maiden, not if it means losing Aunt Petunia, but tradition and a literal war won't let me choose; there are lives I could save, little girls I can offer their daddy, their mommy, to tuck them in at night.

What hurts even more is that I spit in the face of everyone's sacrifice if I keep running away. I can't hope to be worth it, but I lack the strength to face it.

Sigh. "Stay with me?"

"Always."

I nod, praying we'll be given a choice in the matter.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I play. Over and over and over and over. I play.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The scene doesn't change.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

How odd. It was almost comforting, my life before that night. My life was decided for me. My meals, my bedtime, my electives, my hobbies. The violin. The weapons I was to master. My friends. Everything. Father carefully selected each and every single detail of my life for as long as I remember. No matter how I rebelled, how I snuck out, how I got into trouble in Mantle. He'd just smile, and up the ante a little more.

When Ironwood brought me home, saying how I was caught up in brewing gang war, dad only checked me to see if I was injured.

_What's the body count?_

_Security footage puts hers at fifty-two._

Anyone else would have freaked out, but dad? He only asked if they were confirmed criminals. When informed they were, he offered me a drink.

_Continue to protect Mantle, the kingdom as a whole, and I'll never be disappointed in you._

The note comes out mangled, akin to a cat choir. I lower bow and violin both. "I don't know what to do, baby bear."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sigh.

"You were always the strong one. Always knew what to do."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sigh.

I bring the violin back up, bowstring touches. Instead of the Rachmaninoff I've been playing all evening, a rough approximation of 'How am I supposed to live without you' oozes out, dripping with the sadness that plagues my every moment. Don't know why, it isn't helping me feel any better.

Am I worth it, baby bear? Am I worth your mother's broken heart, your sister crying herself to sleep on your chest?

**_8-8_**

* * *

The cadets, they stand before me for inspection. Gone are their standard issue bullshit armours and armaments. Instead, they wear the thicker, lighter armours I made for Noir with loose-hanging scarfs to cover their mouths and upgraded sensory amplifiers—the works, from infrared to ultraviolet. Instead, they brandish their custom made weapons, if the prototypes they still need to iron out.

Some modified their rifles, some akin to Foxtrot, others more sniper-capable. Some modified their pistols, akin to my original Moon. Some modified their swords—some going for longer blades like Professor Branwen, others for daggers like what's-her-face from NDGO, others still changed for more exotic blades.

They haven't branched out crazy far from the originals, yet. It took me eighteen iterations before I got to my current Sun and Moon, so they'll get there.

"Cadets! Fall in!"

They line up, silent and swift. They're learning.

"Now that you have your prototype weapons, it's time for phase two. You'll like every phase less and less."

They're all smiles. Let's see if that lasts.

"That means aura trainings. That means, from the second training starts to your at ease. You will maintain your aura cloaks, at all times. I will be shooting you at random times to test this." I unholster on standard issue Atlas sidearm. Nothing special, just a seven mille. "If you get fucked up. It's on you."

The smiles are gone for most of them, swallowing nervously.

"From now on! There are two things that will stop me from shooting you during trainings!" I fish out my scroll and send them the aura monitoring app. "One, is if your aura is in the red. Two, is if you drop out. Check your scrolls, and add your core teams to it."

While they're doing that, I scan and add all twenty of them to my list, for monitoring. They're all at full. Time for a little gauging.

I whip out the piece of shit pistol, and shoot myself in the foot. Damn thing doesn't even ding my aura level. I shoot Noir in the foot, takes almost ten percent off—he needs so much work it isn't funny.

One by one, shoot each and every cadet in the foot—if pausing to reload now and then. Some lose twenty percent. One loses less than one percent. One sorry sod loses more than half. I look up, finding Mitsuki, bearing a wakizashi and katana combo in a yellow sash, with dual pistols in armpit holsters, and what looks to be a modified rifle on her back. She went whole hog. Interesting. Especially interesting considering her starting line.

I shift the profile pictures around, organizing them according to aura levels, and marking down how much the bullet cost them.

"Today. Your starting line is marked. **If** you reach the finish? Your time at Atlas Academy will seem like a joke. Now. I'm going to offer you two warnings. Two things you do not want me to do. One is hate you. Because I will bring the very end of your rope and make you beg for reassignment. The other is like you. Because I'll be even worse."

Pacing. Pacing. Only pacing, and reloading the pistol.

"Semblance training will not be given as a group, because Semblances are unique to each individual, with the exception of those who inherit a family Semblance. But. That training will be denied you until shooting you takes less than one percent of your aura. Please check your auras for yourself after being shot. Monitor your own growth. When you meet the requirement, you will approach Noir in your downtime to make an appointment with me. Is. That. Clear?!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Good. Then it's time to start playing with sharp and pointy things! Have at, Cadets!"

"Lady DeWitt?" Mitsuki salutes. I nod to her. "How do we increase our aura levels, ma'am?"

"You know how you get physically fit by doing manual labour?" There isn't a face that doesn't grow pale or slack. "That's why I'll be shooting your asses. And I'm going to stop pulling my punches during spars. As long as you're in the green, you're not growing." I do a flying roundhouse kick, almost snapping Mitsuki's neck, sending her tumbling on the training mat as I check her aura—she drops to sixteen percent. I walk over to her. "I intend for you to grow." And I kick her again, hard, getting her under six.

Satisfied, I holster the pistol and offer my hand, running the numbers in my head as I check the monitoring app.

"Fuck me for being likeable." Mitsuki lets me help her onto her feet and shakes her head, trying to chase the cobwebs.

"You should've trained under Major DeWitt. My aura didn't go above five percent between breakfast and dinner." I turn, unholster Moon, and put a reg-round into Noir's leg. He drops to four percent, and one knee. Yup, didn't fudge the calculation. "Now. Does anyone else want me to like them?"

One steps forward. The Faunus, and only him. The others look incredulous, eyeing Mitsuki and Noir.

"Shit. The Academy doesn't train Humans right." I holster my pistol, engaging the safety. "Well. Time for weapon's training. Aoyama and Noir will monitor. One on one. When I point to you, you will announce if you mean to incapacitate or kill, both are acceptable modes of attack in this training. Think of it like choosing your own difficulty level. Disengage when your name is called, and only when your name is called."

I point to the Faunus, tiny little thing he is.

"Kill." He rushes me—the others are quick to give us room as he unsheathes twin daggers. I don't even go for a weapon, I just phase through his attack and ram my jackboot in his face, flipping and flooring him.

"Your name wasn't called!" I ram a kick in his side, turning him over. "Get your ass up and come at me!"

"Ive! What the hell?!" Em comes running from his spar, Neon and Flynt hot on his heels, each intent on stepping in.

"I didn't train Team White." I kick the Faunus again for taking too fucking long to stand. "One's in a wheelchair," I grab the still kowtowing Cadet by the scruff of his armour, ram my knee in his gut, watching dispassionately as his eyes go wide with fear and pain, "the other in a fucking coma!" I toss his ass over my shoulder and across the training mat, sending the others scurrying out of the way to not get bowled over.

A name gets called.

"If I like you. I'm training you like I fucking train." I walk over to the downed Cadet and offer my hand. "You got a name?"

"Meadows." Private Meadows takes my hand, respect lining his eyes as I help him up. "Thank you, Lady DeWitt."

"Don't thank me, Private. Learn. Grow. And fucking survive." I salute Meadows, he salutes right back, chin quivering. "Next!" I walk back to the centre of the sparring ring and point; the manly likkle kiss-ass meeps in fear.

"Incapacitate?" That isn't a fucking answer.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Em rushes me, knee first to knock out my teeth and blades at the ready for a counter-attack he knows he'll need. I duck, plant my hand on the training mat, and shove my foot up his ass, launching him up into the five-metres high stone ceiling.

Before he can even lose purchase, I lash snake-Sun out and wrap the tip around him, jerking him down into the floor.

"Neon!" Noir calls it.

Snake-Sun coils around my waist, grip against my navel for ease of reach, and I offer my hand.

"You're fast. But not that fast, and you don't put in enough power to make me question my odds against you." I nod to him and pull him up. "All that needing to get in their face shit will get you killed quick. Trade one of your swords for a pistol and put in the work to get accurate with it."

Em nods, wobbling on his feet. "Shit. A'ight, Ive. Hook me up?"

"Noir."

He doesn't even hesitate, fishing the latest version of a Moon replica, with six drum-mags, and hands them to Em one by one, thigh holster, hip pouch for storage, and a box of a thousand sixty mille rounds included.

The Cadets stare, wide-eyed and low-jawed as Em limps off towards the firing range.

"Next." I point to Neon Katt. She grins, pulling out her nun chucks.

"Kill." And she rushes me, leaving a fucking rainbow in her wake as she circles me. She's fast. One of the faster I've faced. The wire-frame rendition of her almost seems to be in six places at once, showing more a trajectory of her than a real-time location.

Neon comes in from my rear flank. I side-step and kick out her legs, sending her flying into the line-up and bowling everyone over. She's on her feet before the first even hits the mat, and she starts up her rainbow-blurring around again.

Over and over, I kick out her leg and send her plunging into the mats, and into line-up. Eventually, the mooks start trying to jump over her—understanding that they're involved whether they like it or not.

After the sixth smack down, I trust the timing well enough to trip her, wrap snake-Sun around her, and ram her into the ceiling face first.

"Katt!" Noir calls it. I reel in Sun and sheathe her, already moving towards her nose-dive. I catch Neon—awkwardly, seeing as she wasn't exactly controlling her fall, but well enough that she doesn't get hurt. I set her on her feet.

"Same issue as Em. No long range. You've got the speed it takes, but you trust that speed too much. The second your opponent has a counter for it, you're fucked." I set her on her feet, steadying her best I can on noodly legs. "She'll need twin pistols and armpit holsters."

"Aye." Noir fishes out the requested gear, and a waist pouch to store the mags. He hands them to her and she stumbles along to join Em.

The cadets take a few dozen healthy steps back—either not wanting to be called on, or not trusting they won't be dragged into the next spar. Curiously, Meadows and Mitsuki don't.

"Next." I point to Flynt. "No trumpet. You rely on it too much."

"Not cool, Ivy."

"And no hands."

Flynt sighs, but accepts my terms all the same. "Incapacitate, then." He comes at me, lashing a kick for my head. I duck and lash a sweeping kick at his supporting leg, flooring him. He's on his feet as quickly as I am.

"If I can predict you, I can counter. Stop being predictable."

"Semblance use is a go?"

"Of course."

Flynt circles around me, leaving clones of himself in his wake and properly surrounding me. Four against one, huh?

"Now we're talking." I beckon, unable to hide my smirk.

A kick comes in from behind. Smart, but I duck under it, kick out his leg, and shunt him into one of the other clones.

"Never assume you have the drop on them. If they're alive, they've survived worse. Plan for it."

The clones help each other up, and they make their way right back to me, circling around me, waiting for an opening.

"Better." I nod and rush one of them.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"No." Mitsuki struggles up to her feet. "I'm. Not. Giving. Up." I rush her and ram my knee in her throat, wrap snake-Sun around her middle as she rockets away from me, and slam her into the mat.

"Aoyama!" Noir calls it.

Snake-Sun reels in, shifts to sword-form, and sheathes. I offer my hand. "You've improved."

Mitsuki snorts as she takes my hand. Her legs give out, so I throw her arm around my shoulder and mine around her waist, helping her over to line-up. Poor girl collapses the second I let go, and makes herself comfortable on the mat beside Flynt.

I fish out my scroll and send them both a series of docs.

"Flynt. You up?"

"Jus' five minutes, ma." Flynt shifts and turns his back to me. Maybe I hit him a little too hard.

First time I had to put in effort to best him. "You've got the same issue as Flynt. You're too used to your weapons keeping people at a distance. The docs have fighting styles detailed. Pick one, any one, and start training in your down time. I recommend a more kick-oriented style. Tae Kwon Do or Muay Thai, if you ignore the punches. I'll show you how to feel the rhythm of battle once you've got the basics down."

Instead of answering, Mitsuki fishes out her scroll and gets down to it. Her pistols, though.

"Lemme see one?" I hold out my hand. Mitsuki looks up. "Pistol." She hands me one.

Hmm. Good balance. I click out the mag—looks to be nine mille, eight rounds in the mag. A good learner's piece, but little better than standard issue. I beckon to Noir as I hand her the pistol.

"And the rifle?" Mitsuki looks up, eyebrow cocked as she unholsters her rifle and hands it to me.

Not the pew-pew kind, that's good. Point-fifty calibre rounds, thirty round mag. Decent enough scope. "She's a DMR."

Without prompting, Noir issues her two Moon replicas with proper armpit holsters, a dozen drum-mags, and a box of a thousand rounds.

"She'll need a rifle."

Mitsuki's eyes widen.

"DMR, sixty mille round. Drum-mag holds one-twenty rounds. Grenade launcher, and proper sniper's scope if you flick the trigger forward."

Noir hands her the Foxtrot replica with six drum-mags, six grenade mags, and pouches to stow her shit. I send her another doc via scroll, this one detailing how to craft grenades and dust-rounds.

"Take a week. Get used to the way they handle. If you need modifications, let me know."

Mitsuki can only nod; either not trusting her voice, or unable to find it.

I walk right back into the sparring ring, and point to the next mook, getting a resigned groan in response.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Nikos tosses one of the cadets up in the air, and flings her shield at the nearest of the other five surrounding her, ricocheting the damn thing like a pinball from one face to the next.

Shit. Those are the best six of the bunch, and she's rag-dolling them like a bunch of amateurs. That's what I get for complimenting them, I guess; they think that means they can handle themselves in a fight.

One by one, names ring out. Each time, Noir's smile grows just a little more. Until at last: "Meadows!"

The last flops on the mat, panting and groaning in pain.

"Very good, Privates. You held up well." Nikos bows to them, all smiles.

"I was just getting used to DeWitt," one of the mooks bemoans her fate as she picks herself up and starts looking around for her weapons.

"Ivory?" Nikos turns to me, her green eyes smiling bright. "General Ironwood suggested I take a few of the Privates for my personal guard. With your permission, I'd like these six."

And just like that, all the complaints are gone. The battered and bruised Cadets share victory cheers and self-congratulations, tears in their eyes.

"Atten-tion!" All Cadets snap to attention. "You kiss-asses have just be reassigned. Fuck this up, and it's my name you stain. Try guess how I'll take that."

I salute, and they salute in kind, tears in their eyes.

"If, you don't mind?" Nikos looks to me, eyes smiling. "I'd like to take over their training?"

"They're your men now, Nikos. Arm, armour, and train them as you see fit." I salute to Nikos, and she salutes in kind. Army brat, huh?

"Alright, men. With me." Nikos walks off, heading towards the training hall door with Arc hot on her heels—likely seeking somewhere private. "You need to be brought up to speed on your new assignment."

Six down. Fourteen to go.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Winter. Such a marvellous time, don't you agree?" Aunt Petunia conjures up a hailstorm buffeting the mountain top.

Nikos, try as she might, doesn't ease the storm buffeting us. The ground is littered with deadfall—no trees, since we're well above the treeline, but somehow Nikos summoned deadfall and tried to construct some kind of cover for her team all the same. Nothing's worked thus far, but from the light bulb clicking in her eyes, she has an idea. She kneels, Arc and his boys surrounding her with their kite shields up to keep the hail off their charge, even as they open fire on the Grimm dumb enough to want in on the fight—suicidal Sabyrs, who knew. Still not sure why Aunt Petunia wanted me to let them in, or how she knew to coax them to come.

A sapling pushes up from snow-clad deadfall, then another. Noir and I jump back as saplings try to coil around out feet. Soon a fucking forest sprouts up, reaching for the clouds, their autumn leaves still attached.

I can only blink, eyes widen as tree branches seemingly knit together and cover the group.

Aunt Petunia's laughter fills the night as the storm eases. Clouds disperse, leaving only the starlight blinking down upon us.

"Very clever." Can't argue there. It's rife with plausible defences, and it breaks line of sight with ease.

Respect, Nikos.

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Listen up." The cadets stand at attention, not an eyelash out of place. Each has their bag at their feet, wearing the pin Tiff made just for this occasion with pride. Dunno why I agreed to this, but it's only fair they be allowed to head home for the holidays. "We arrive in Mantle's Royal district at twelve-hundred hours. You are permitted to go where you please, provided you do not take off your security pin. It will record everything around you. Your location, your conversations, your scroll's activities. Everything. Don't like it? Don't go."

I pace, the clapping of my jackboots the only sound in the hangar, save Aunt Petunia being wheeled up into Starlight, with her nurses falling over themselves trying to keep her safe and comfortable, and Tiff cursing up a storm at the foot of the ramp. Somehow, each time one of the nurses offers Tiff a hand, she all but bites their head off.

"The return trip is in three days at twenty-one-hundred hours. With or without you, we return here to continue training. Feel free to report to Atlas Academy for relocation." I salute those ballsy enough to still be here after almost two months of my torturous training regimen. Not one dropped out thus far, none even hint they're tempted to. Sure, they bitch and bemoan the shit I put them through—that's to be expected. They salute back, all smiles. "At ease."

"Hey, Ive! Need a hand over here!" Tiff waves me over, trying and failing to get up the ramp. I double-time it over to her, and help her up the ramp. She nods, thanking me as she wheels herself over to one side and straps herself in for the flight.

"You sure about this, Tiff?"

"Hell yeah! I'm not missing a festival! Besides, I've got an appointment with Dr Polendina."

Figuring she's got plans, I head right back down as Nikos and her group make their way out. Meadows breaks formation, salutes Nikos, and double-times it up the ramp of Nikos's Hornet. Curiously, Nikos didn't ask me to secure it, upgrade it, nothing. Not complaining, since that's less work for me, but curious all the same.

"Ivory?" Nikos walks over, with Arc at her flank. The farm boy looks so much steadier in his boots, after Nikos whipped his sorry ass into shape—though the haircut and the comfort he's gained with ordering the men around might have helped some. "General Ironwood needs a word with us. He'll meet us at DeWitt manor when we arrive."

I don't know how the hell Nikos knows that, but I've long given up trying to understand some things.

"Understood." I salute her. "You heard the lady! All aboard!"

**_8-8_**

* * *

Ironwood's ship hovers in place as Nikos and I approach. Em takes us in, the hangar door opening on its own, recognizing me and Noir even at this distance, so the three ships ease in, one at a time.

The cadets pile out of Starlight, lining up without prompting. Mitsuki, however, helps Tiff down the ramp, backwards to avoid oopsies, before rushing back up to get her things. She barely makes it to line-up before Ironwood and Schnee disembark from Ironwood's ship.

The hangar is…nice. Spacious enough for not just the three Hornets, but another three to boot. There's a mechanic's office near the door, with a proper workbench outfitted with all the toys I could drool over, and mini-silo meant for refuelling—if tragically empty just now.

It's kind of sad I haven't checked this place out, but I just didn't have the time beyond installing the security system—not exactly prime sight-seeing opportunity.

"Ivory." Ironwood salutes. The Cadets and I salute in kind. "I have news. The Academy opens a new class with the new year. We have space for four teams, and your cadets are at the top of the list."

Even with hood down, I sense the jubilation of most of the cadets—anything to get the hells away from me and my training, being my guess.

"Do you believe them ready?"

"For the Huntsman programme?" I snort. "More than."

"Good. Then all interested will report to Atlas Academy at oh-six-hundred hours on January third, for team and bunk assignment."

"General Ironwood, sir!" Mitsuki is going to make her move, it seems.

"Private Aoyama?"

"Requesting permission to stay under Lady DeWitt's command, sir!" Still the weakest of the bunch, but she's got spunk in spades.

The other cadets shiver, pity lining their gazes.

"In what capacity, Private? The boot camp is at its end."

Mitsuki's gaze falls to me. It's subtle, but not unnoticeable. "As Lady DeWitt's personal guard, sir! If she'll have me."

"Ivory?" Ironwood looks to me.

Hmm. Mitsuki's skills are still a joke. She'll need at least another six months before I'll trust her to watch my back, but maybe a bit more one-on-one training will shorten that? "I'll need Noir, Aoyama, Coal, Katt, Neon, and Tulip."

"Granted. Everyone else is dismissed."

I turn to Noir. He pulls his hood down, his inky eyes smiling under his black crew cut as he snaps off a salute.

"Cadets! Grab. Gear!" Everyone but Mitsuki grabs their shit, ready to move out immediately. "About. Face!" Noir marches them along, the cyan tattoo behind his right ear barely noticeable even in the fluorescence of the hangar.

"Ms Winthrop. How goes Ms Nikos's training?" The hangar door closes, leaving us in relative peace.

"She has much to learn, but little left for me to teach her." Aunt Petunia nods, reaching out. She's a shell of her former self. Barely more than skin and bones, with sunken eyes and continually shaking.

Nikos takes her hand. "I can't thank you enough, Aunt Petunia. For everything."

"No need to thank me, Pyrrha. Just be sure to keep my lessons close to heart." Aunt Petunia taps her shaking bony finger against her own chest.

"Good." Ironwood nods, seemingly satisfied with things. "Ms Nikos. Report to Argus."

Nikos's eyes widen for the briefest of moments.

"You'll be under Major Cardovin's command. Your orders: keep the peace in Argus."

"Understood, General!" Nikos salutes, and her group boards her ship, ready to head out.

I palm the interface, opening the hangar door.

"Ivory." Sigh. The Hornet is barely out of the hangar, and already he's being an ass. "Status update."

The hangar door closes, my palm falls loose at my side. I turn, arms crossing behind me. "On what?"

"The situation in Mantle. The order. And…?"

Sigh. I fish out my scroll and dial my CEO.

**"DeWitt!"** Kale snaps off a salute. Still not sure why he salutes me.

"Status report."

**"Latest shipment's locked and loaded. The General's men have already inspected it. Delivery scheduled to leave in thirteen minutes twenty seconds, bound for Atlas Academy. I just closed the deal on your new residential complex. Rent's been lowered forty-six percent, and HR signs the final contract as we speak. Advertisement revenue's through the roof. The lines outside the new multiplex have only grown—we'll need to open a new one swiftly. Meat production's up eighty-two percent, produce up three-hundred and ten percent, and prices halved for all DeWitt affiliated buyers. And I cut the ribbon with Robyn Hill for the newest rehab centre tomorrow at ten."**

"Good. And the project?" I knew asking him to spearhead this would work out. He's an ass, but motivated to a fault when it comes to business ventures. Still not sure why he thought the Huntsman life was for him—probably to get out from under his father's thumb.

**"Ahead of schedule. Father's been most welcoming of a joint venture, and mother's overjoyed to be our spokeswoman." **The woman always did enjoy bragging rights, and with our affordable designer clothes and furniture stores doing so well? Nothing but good publicity for DeWitt Co, for herself, and bragging that none of her friends are in the newest rage: commercials.** "We discuss the finer points over dinner tonight."**

"Good work. See that everyone gets paid leave for the holidays. With a healthy bonus."

**"One month's pay bonus is already budgeted for everyone. I've got a class to give. Kale, out."**

With one handled, I call Hill.

**"DeWitt! I'm just about to go on!"** The customary chanting in the background overpowers her voice, even with her shouting. It sounds like a concert with the crowd demanding an encore.

"Just an update."

**"Mantle Academy's running short on room and instructors! Everyone and their dog is signing up! Had to call in a few favours for specialized courses! And tell Ironwood to stop calling me! I don't answer to him!"**

"I'll handle it. DeWitt, out." I hang up.

Ironwood is all smiles. Even with my people clearly refusing his calls, he couldn't care less just now. "Good. Then might I suggest enjoying the holidays?"

Enjoy. Funny how he can't look at Aunt Petunia and say that.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The streets of Mantle are little more than a collection of festivals. Parades with floats and 'Vote Hill' signs. Parties with Mantellian soldiers in Atlas gear, if with Mantle's teardrop turning into snowflake crest on their pauldrons, as guests of honour. The metres-tall viewscreens on every other building show sneak-peaks at upcoming films interspersed with promotional bits about Hill's 'clean slate' bill for all Mantellian hustlers and gangbangers if they sign up to Mantle Academy. Girl scouts go door to door, selling cookies with the DeWitt family crest on them, each group accompanied by three Mantellian soldiers, just in case.

It's paradise, of a sorts. And I'm grateful for it.

Aunt Petunia looks around with the eyes of a child as Mitsuki pushes her wheelchair. An old hand reaches up, plucking mine from my pocket, like I used to with her. But…her hands barely fit into her gloves anymore—every time I sew a new pair for her, by the time she tries them on, they're already too damn loose.

"Oh, I know this place." Aunt Petunia points to some random dive. Lost Lovers, it's called. The windows are draped faded purple, the door has a bouncer in tattered rags. Don't remember this place at all. "Take me there."

I haven't the heart to deny her. So walk up to the crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green. Each time the door opens, another elderly couple dressed in something so dated it might be detailed in the DeWitt library, the soft strings of some old school Soul oozes out, along with a puff of cigarette smoke.

Traffic on the street speeds up for yellow, and hits a hard breaks for red—cunts. Still, we get a green at last, so we head on over.

"Oh, Deliah, do you remember this place?" Aunt Petunia asks, looking up at me with love in her eyes. She's…

"Can't say I do." Tears sting my eyes.

"Deliah! How could you forget?" She gives me a hurt look, but shakes it off and pats my hand. "Oh, that Gion must be driving you mad again. Come, come. It isn't far. You'll remember it, I'm sure."

The bouncer holds the door open for us as we approach, but the scene awaiting us inside isn't what I expected. There's a ramp, shallow enough for wheelchairs, leading us up into an main hall where they have coat and weapon lockers that take these old coins—back before Lien cards were even a thing.

An attendant comes to us. "Ah, Lady DeWitt. A pleasure to see you. And who might this be?"

Aunt Petunia looks up at me, her cheeks flushed and eyes laden with love. She's not even here, not in the present.

"My Petty," I pat her hand, "come to steal me away from the manor, per the norm."

Aunt Petunia swats my arm and covers her glowing smile. I thought as much. She thinks she's here with my grandmother.

"Ah, of course. Lovely to see you again, Ms Winthrop. Come, Lady DeWitt. Your guard need not disarm, should you take a private booth."

"I would be most grateful." I curtsey to her, trying to keep in character so Aunt Petunia can have her night—she's earned this a million times over, after all.

We check in our coats, and the attendant leads us down a corridor, away from the music. The walls are draped in silk, with old paintings hung under spotlights. Not the energy saving ones, either. The old ones, that give off more heat than light, from back before the steam vents were a thing.

Scenes captured in bright paints, from a bygone era. The old streetlights, old cable cars. Couples hiding from the hail under shared wooden umbrellas.

"Oh, Delia, it's just like I remember." Aunt Petunia points. "See. There. Right there. That's where we met." We stroll over to one of the paintings of the old theatre, burned down some fifty years passed and never rebuilt, not as it once was. "I was one of the attendants, and you would come in every Sunday for the six o'clock show. Never missed it, you didn't."

"Of course, Petty. How could I forget." I hook a stray strand behind her ear, smiling best I can for her.

"Oh, tish tosh." She swats my hand away, struggling not to blush and sucking at it. "You barely even noticed me half the time."

"Ah, perhaps Ms Winthrop will enjoy this next piece." The attendant motions to one down the line. As we approach, I can see why.

The title reads, 'Lost Lovers'. You'd almost think the guitarist was the centrepiece, but she's faded and out of focus even in the spotlight. No, it's the two in the dark, seated at a wraparound table, draped dark blue with the DeWitt crest in snowy white. Two women sit side by side. One with white hair and violet eyes, her stern demeanour obvious in how she sits upright, but a minute smile tugs at her lips all the same. At her side, a young Faunus with a strawberry blond lion's mane, all but fawning over her lover.

Though there isn't a cartoonish 'heart-shaped eyes' motif, you can tell with the just by how her slitted pupils dilate, the little smile she sucks at hiding, the flushed cheeks. How Petty's hand reaches for Deliah's, cloaked in the darkness of the room.

But, it's the painting beside it that gets me. Same setup, only the table with the lovers houses two men. A seated man with a crew cut and violet eyes, sloshing his bourbon. And behind him, half-hidden in the shadows, an Oriental man with katana and wakizashi worn on his left hip; his little frown at dad's drinking, the steel in his inky black eyes that show he's ever on guard, even surveying for threats to his liege. On stage…the silver-hair Iris Dauphan, strumming a worn down guitar as she sings for the crowd. So that's why she was so adamant that I learn to play something.

This is where my parents met.

"Oh my!" Aunt Petunia stares, eyes wide. "Deliah, I'm so sorry! I swear, I didn't tell a soul!"

"Hush now." I pat her hand. "Come what may, Petty. I'm here." I turn to the attendant. "How much?"

"Hmm?" The attendant plays ignorant, struggling to hide her knowing smile. "Well. We are trying to raise money for Vale. A…donation might go a long way in—"

"Sold. Both of them."

"Lia!" Aunt Petunia presses a moist kiss to my hand.

"Have them delivered to the manor. Payment on delivery, of course."

"Of course, Your Grace." The attendant curtseys, eyes lit up. She claps and some bouncer-types come our way, working in pairs to take down each with extreme care. "Please, your private booth awaits."

**_8-8_**

* * *

By the time we're seated, Aunt Petunia's already in a different time. "Oh, I wonder if Iris will be coming on soon." My father's time, it seems.

"Iris?" I ask, playing dumb for her sake—grandmother would no doubt be long passed by this point.

"You've not heard of her? Your Gion fancies her something awful. Voice of an angel, the way he tells it." Aunt Petunia waves it off. "Poppycock, I say. No one sings better than my Lia." I didn't know grandmother could sing.

Painkillers are a funny thing. The over-the-counter ones are innocent enough, but the hard shit? Oh, the places those things take you.

The table is just as it was in the painting, draped in deep blue, with the DeWitt crest on it. And the stage, it's small, with a little tier jutting out with a single barstool set up with two microphones—one for a guitar, the other to sing.

At the foot of the stool is an old guitar, worn down with age. No one's on stage just now.

The attendant asks if we'd like something to drink. "Red wine for my Petty. And bourbon for me."

"Bourbon!" Aunt Petunia gets on my case, hand on my abdomen. "Delia, you know you shouldn't drink."

"Come now. One glass can't hurt."

"You've never drunk one glass of anything in your life. No, she'll have tea. Darjeeling. With a…oh, seafood agrees with you these days, right, Lia?" Ah. My grandmother's just pregnant with my aunt, it would seem. I nod. "Good. The seafood platter for us to share."

Well. Not ideal, but Aunt Petunia is more than happy with it, so I'll manage.

Someone comes out on stage, taking their seat by the piano in the background—looks to be a baby grand, with the bay open. They play a few notes, getting the crowd worked up, theories of which 'familiar face' will come out for tonight.

Not important, not to me.

My scroll rings. I fish it out.

**"Ivory. We need to talk. Now."**

"It'll wait." I glare, daring Ironwood to rob me of one fucking night with her.

"Ivory?" Aunt Petunia asks, looking to me. "Oh, you did, didn't you."

**"Ms Winthrop. Are…you alright?"**

"She's hopped up on meds," I inform him.

"Ah! Jimmy! No! Jimmy, no! No, Jimmy boy! No! Is my Ivory alright!"

Sigh. I pet Aunt Petunia, trying to comfort her best I can. It's all guess work where she is mentally, but I'm pretty sure Ironwood's the one that informed her of that night.

**"Ivory. Explain. Now."**

"You're upsetting her. Shut up and give me one fucking night with my aunt. It's not too much to ask." I hang up and put the damnable thing away.

"Delia. Oh, Delia, forgive me. Forgive me, Delia. I couldn't save you then, and I can't save your Ivory now."

"Shh shh shhh shhhhhh." I pet and preen her best I can. "It's alright. Ivory's stronger than you think."

"Oh, that's what Gion would say, but no. She has his ways, but she has her mother's heart. She's not meant for that life, she never was, Lia. She never was. She told me. Told me over and over. That she just wants to play her violin. That she loves her dresses and all, no matter how she complains about them."

Sigh. Thanks, I needed the reminder.

"She's so much like you, Lia. Sacrificing herself for the greater good, but this world…Lia, this world isn't meant for the gentle-spirited. This world will break her like it broke you, Lia."

"There there, now. No need to fret. Ivory knows what she gives up." And she's quite annoyed with talking in the third person! Stupid fucking Ironwood. We were doing just fine! "Come now. The music's starting."

"No! No, Lia, listen to me! Ivory isn't like that! She wants so much to leave that all behind! She just wants to work in a lab, like her mother! Just wants to be free!"

My heart sinks, lower and lower.

"Please, Lia. Don't make me do this. She doesn't want this life."

"No. She doesn't," I agree. I kiss Aunt Petunia's brow, petting her to soothe her aching heart, and mine. "But life doesn't always let us choose, Petty. She'll be alright, in time."

"Good evening, Lords and Ladies." The announcer strums her guitar. "This year's Mantle Charity Ball, is dedicated to the Kingdom of Vale. So please. Eat, drink, and be merry. All proceeds will go towards the restoration efforts."

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Can I get you anything?" the attendant asks, smiling.

"Bourbon. Bottle. No ice." Words. Just words.

"Of course, Lady DeWitt. Please. General Ironwood requests an audience."

"He'll need brandy. And when the other patrons leave. An ambulance. No sirens."

The attendant's eyes go wide, she looks to Aunt Petunia, the way I keep petting her, to my shaking hand, to the rivulets frozen on my cheeks.

"Bottle of bourbon. Strong bourbon."

"Of. Of course." Tears well up in her eyes. "I'll see to it at once."

Attendant leaves, and she rushes right back, offering me the bottle already uncorked. I don't bother with the lowball glass as mouth kisses my lips.

He comes. Ironwood. He opens his mouth, angry.

A hand lands on my shoulder. A gentle squeeze. Words I can't make out—don't pierce the haze.

Blue eyes go wide as reality hits home like a branch dropped from highest bough.

"She," I gulp the bourbon to swallow the pain, "stopped breathing an hour ago."

Ironwood collapses into the couch beside me.

"Don't worry. I was in her final thoughts."

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Seven_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: Sigh. Sorry.  
_**

**_Just...sorry._**


	19. V3:C8—Firewood

_**Monster in my Head**_

_**"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."**_

_**_**Beta: Setokaiva**_**_

_**Volume Three, Chapter Eight—Firewood**_

**_8-8_**

* * *

DeWitt manor. I walk through the subterranean gardens, petting the three-tows as they graze, shaking their three-ton woolly asses. The exhausted dust mine balloons out, into an almost meadow-like cavern, with a false sun shining through icicles drip-melting to feed the grass.

"She loved coming down here." Don't know why I say it, why it even needs to be said. Noir knows, he was down here with me, chasing after the bison, learning to ride them when I barely reached dad's knee.

"'Er Grace did." Noir's hand lands on my shoulder, his mute sigh a puff of smoke. "D'you…wan' to talk?"

I pet the gentle giant's shoulder as she continues working in the grass. She snorts, a ream of snot spewing about and bathing the grass—she pays it no mind as she gobbles it down.

"Aoyama is in the trainin' hall. Runnin' in all yer toys."

Sigh. I need a drink.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The dining hall is sparse here, compared to the Crypt at least. There are only two paintings on the walls—both versions of 'Lovers lost'. Fireplace roars, the hall's only light. Bourbon swishes about my mouth, burning my throat as I gulp it down.

Kale's report is long-winded, detailing the updates to his personal project, how much it'll cost, how that will affect the bottom line, and how long return on investment will take to bring our books back in the black.

"Sounds good." Another long pull, straight from the bottle. Another call comes in, Ironwood. "Steer the course. I'll inform you when we can make another ballsy move."

**"Understood."** Kale salutes as I switch the call.

Ironwood looks…worse each time I see him. More tired, more worn down, as if each day hits him like a year. **"It's…good to see you, Ivory."**

"You have orders, General?"

**"I…"** His eyes can't even look at the sensor, at the digital image of me. **"Our Mistral team is overdue. I've received no reports, nor has Ms Nikos."**

Ah, the true reason she was sent to Argus. Subtle extraction, with a side of peacekeeping. "And you want me to…?"

**"Accompany me. To Argus, for inspection. Blue Two leaves at oh-six-hundred hours. We've…room enough for the Starlight."**

"Very well." I end the call and make to stand. My legs give out, but Noir catches me before knees touch marble. Sigh. "I'm fine."

"No. You're no'."

With what kick is left in me, I right myself and walk along.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Mitsuki mans the shooting range, dual-wielding her new pistols as she rains hell down on the drunken targets. Curious, I fish out my scroll and load the aura monitoring app; hers is at three percent.

At the beep, the stats load. She has it set to my standards, her accuracy forty-nine-point-two percent. Load claps and a clatter, she slams two fresh drum-mags into her pistols, and starts the timer again, abusing the targets anew, if taking a moment before each shot this time.

Another beep. Stats load, showing less shots taken, but seventy-two-point-one accuracy. She engages the safety and holsters them, walking over to the sparring mat.

Not a word spoken, she just unsheathes her sword and flings herself into a dual-bladed dance, hacking and slashing her imaginary opponents, and kicking them when the opportunity presents itself.

Over and over, the same dance, burning the motions into somatic memory until she no longer has to think about it.

After the tenth loop, as her aura level hits the green, she spear-throws her katana. With the same motion, her glove glows violet, echoing the glow in her katana grip. Her weapon flies right back into her hand. The spear-throws both katana and wakizashi, both gloves glowing as her weapons fly right back at her.

Her training whittles away at her aura, until it's down to three percent again. She sheathes her blades and walks right back over to the shooting range, and slaps a drum mag in her rifle, ratcheting it to pop a round in the chamber.

I stand here, arms wrapped around my middle, staring as she opens fire. Slower this time, as if to make every shot count.

Another round, and another. Each time her accuracy goes up—sometimes by a fraction of a percent, but never once lowers.

Mitsuki…you…haven't changed.

"Ka'!" Noir's bellow almost makes me jump out of my skin. "Coal! Tulip! Neon! Aoyama! Fall in!"

The training hall fills with a break-neck staccato as they all rush over, knowing we have orders. I…I didn't even notice Tiff walking, or the cybernetic legs she was tightening the screws on, or the implant replacing her eyebrows to control her new legs. She isn't even trying to hide them under her pants, wearing fuck-me shorts to show off the collection of powder dust capsules, no doubt to power whatever new toys Polendina came up with for her.

All eyes fall to me.

Sigh. I pace, arms crossed behind me. "Blue Two is bound for Argus. Departure time oh-six-hundred hours. We are to accompany General Ironwood for his supposed inspection. So we sleep on Starlight tonight. Be prepared for heavy combat. Any upgrades needed, let me know. I'll see to them en route."

"Hey, Ivy?"

My pacing halts. But I don't turn to Neon.

"We. Well, we've been talking. And we think we need a symbol. To show we're a team."

Sigh.

"And since we're your honour g—"

"Who decided that?" I cock an eyebrow, still not turning to them.

"Ive." Tiff gets on my case, cocking her cybernetic eyebrow right back at me, as if daring me to challenge her. "We're your honour guards. Deal with it."

"Yeah!" Neon's all smiles. "We are! And we should so bear the DeWitt crest, to let the world know the DeWitt family is totally making a comeback!"

Sigh.

"Ma'am." Noir offers me a stack of sashes, each bearing proper pouches for storage. Royal blue, dotted with the DeWitt crest in snowy white. "We stand wiv you."

"Totally!" Neon beams, her usual sunshiny grin lighting up the room. Em and Tiff bump fists, each flashing a cocky smirk. Flynt just crosses his arms—too 'cool' to be as showy as the others.

But Mitsuki? She breaks line-up and comes right for me and stands at attention, snaps off a salute, and holds it.

Sigh. I take Mitsuki's swords out, and lay them out in thin air. Mitsuki's cocky assuredness vanishes, as do the others'. My hand, acting of its own accord, takes the top sash and wraps it around Mitsuki's waist, ties a traditional knot at her right hip. And her swords stuff themselves into her new sash.

All the bravado from a moment ago, evaporated. "The hand that acts from the shadow. Her name, is Salem. And she will send the worst of the worst to claim my head. To break each and every one of you for associating with me."

"Then you'll have to train us to be the best of the best." Mitsuki's face relaxes into an easy smile. "And I'll need you to look at my swords again. One will need to be a snake-sword, after all. The other, a glaive."

Sigh. "You a—"

Mitsuki takes a step towards me. Then another. As if to sneak under on my usual defences, as if to test if I'll run again. "You aren't the only one that lost it all that night. My mother. My father. My brother. Yukie was all I had left, save you. And I am. Not. Going to let you run away again."

Sigh. "You think I—"

"You're trying to protect me. But you forget. I am Mitsuki Aoyama. Eldest daughter to the most stubborn man alive, and the only man your father trusted to watch his back. You are not. Running. Not without me."

My mouth opens.

"No." She holds up a finger, as if to trip up my words. "I'm. Coming. End. Of story."

Sigh. "Call Yukie. We leave no loose ends for them to follow. As for the rest of you. Same. Your family needs to be here within the hour."

"That's easy." Em pinches his chin. "Being an orphan and all that, but…I need my girl. She's in Mistral."

"Hmm." Tiff plants her elbow on Em's shoulder, mischief in her eyes. She's going to be teasing the everlasting shit out of him about that, isn't she. "We're headed to Argus. I'll get my brat pack. No promises mom will like it, though."

Flynt and Neon are already on their scrolls, telling their families to pack it in, and head straight for the manor, no questions.

"Yukie. It's time."

**"No way!"**

"DeWitt manor. Right now."

A squeal fills the hall before the call ends.

Sigh. I'm going to regret this so bad.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The dining hall teems with life. Mrs Katt rubs her cheek against mine. Mr Katt claims the other cheek. Three younger Katts hem me in from behind. Each purring to show how they feel about this.

The Coals are too busy making a fuss about which bedroom they want to claim for their own—Mrs Coal is trying to keep the twins on a short leash, but clearly isn't having much luck with it. Mr Coal and Yukie discuss decorative rings and earrings they want to make, with Yukie theorizing how to weaponize them, and Mr Coal only egging her on more by tossing in more theoretical uses for every dust crystal type.

It's…

I'm…

Sigh.

My scroll rings. Em's frantically booting Starlight to go get the Bruins. They're safe in the Crypt, of course, but I want them here before we go.

**"Ive. We're prepped for take-off. Just need…" **The sound of the hangar door opening cuts him off. **"So that's why you're so careful."** Em smirks, knowing full well that Noir can access almost every secret of the DeWitt family, other than the ones that require blood relations.

**"Ma'am. We're callin' ih in. We'll sleep ih off en route to Argus."**

"Stay." I swallow a frog in my throat. "Stay safe."

**"Understood. Noir, ou'."**

The call ends.

"Ivy! I so need to get my ears pierced." Neon is all smiles, looking around at her new home. "And I soooooo need a makeover! Come on, Ivy! Hook your girl up!"

"Hell yeah." Tiff is clearly on board with it. "Be back. I'm getting suited up." She makes her way towards the door, no doubt heading for her room to get changed.

Sigh. She isn't even used to her new legs. Not to mention her pitiful performance, and limited improvement. Sigh. I'm going to regret this. I know I am.

**_8-8_**

* * *

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

"I don't know what to do."

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

"Everyone's trying to keep up a brave face for me, but…"

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

The medical wing. It was one of many changes to assman's design I demanded. Every possible medical apparatus is in here, at Dr Pickles's fingertips to tend to…

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

I clip the bonsai tree set on the table that separates father and son. An apple tree, or it would have been, had it been given the room to grow.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

Sigh. "We make for Argus in a few hours." It's not like sleep is a restful state, not anymore. Not for me. "Knowing that ass he'll want another meeting, have a new hare-brained scheme he needs me to iron out for him."

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

Satisfied the tree will survive, at least until I get back, I pour the aspirin water from a watering can, making it rain on the little tree I stunted.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

"I won't be playing for you tonight. Sorry about that, but I…." Every time I touch that damn violin, the urge to walk away from this life gets too much. I…I can't lose focus.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

With everything I can do already checked off, I lean in and press a kiss to Wenge's brow, and hurry over and kiss Mr Bee's just the same.

Neither notices, of course.

Sigh. I need a drink, but with my usual pilots drunk on sleep…?

**_8-8_**

* * *

I bring us into Blue Two's hangar, turning for an easy exit when we're ready to go. Once we touch down, I lower the ramp and go through the usual post-flight checks.

My scroll rings as I'm updating the log. I press to answer, Ironwood comes up, sorrow in his eyes. "Going through post-flights. Keep it brief."

**"Come to my office. We…need to talk."**

Sigh. I hang up, going through the final paces. The cockpit door opens, Mitsuki walks in. I know it's her, because no one else has the balls to walk in when I tell them to leave me the fuck alone.

"Everyone's asleep. I'm coming with you."

**_8-8_**

* * *

"Private Aoyama, escorting Lady DeWitt to see the general."

We're buzzed in, and Mitsuki leads the way. She snaps off a salute and eases herself into the background, but not before Ironwood gets a glimpse of her sash, of the familiar blue, of the DeWitt crest…of the familiar swords.

I ease into the swivel chair opposite him.

Instead of addressing me, he calls the secretary and informs her that he will not be disturbed. The intercom shuts down and the door locks.

"She's aware?"

"Of the basics, yes. What's the situation?"

"Ms Nikos called me last night. Reported that she contacted the Mistral team. There's…a situation brewing."

I give him a deadpan stare.

"We already know Leo works for Salem. But he's cooperating a little too well. There's a meeting set up. Tonight. We believe Salem makes her move. It's why we're going to be in Argus. Barely an hour away by air."

"Suspected move?"

"We. Don't know."

Nikos will be there, knowing her. She won't let her teammates fall, not if she can help it, but… "They sprung the last attack on us. Overwhelmed us when we weren't ready."

"Yes." Ironwood gets up and heads to his kitchenette, pouring himself a drink, no doubt. "If they hold true to their modus operandi, they'll work with the White Fang again. Sneak Grimm into the city. Cause as much chaos as they can, as quickly as they can, to summon yet more reinforcements."

And Atlas can't do anything, lest we risk branding as the attackers again. "You mean to send in a team."

"Perhaps." Ironwood saunters over, not offering me a drink as he eases into his chair and sips. "The Ace-Ops are needed in Atlas, to oversee the city's defences. And Qrow reported that many of Mistral's Huntsmen were…away on missions. Overdue for return."

"What of the team Branwen gathered for…?"

"In Vale, aiding as they can with the reconstruction and city defences. As are the overdue Huntsmen."

"They know."

Ironwood nods.

"They'll plan for it."

He upends his glass, gently clanking it onto his desk. "No one would blame you. For taking the time to grieve."

I stand, knowing all I need to, snapping off a salute. I barely make it to the door.

"We're sending a detachment to Vale to collect the Mistral Huntsmen, to lie in wait for the trap to be sprung. You don't need to go."

"Yes. I do." My teammate's girl is in Mistral. In the part of the city most won't bother to defend, no doubt.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The mountains surrounding Mistral loom in the distance, the sun at its highest as my team gathers in the cockpit, sipping their coffees and teas.

"The situation. Headmaster Lionheart works for Salem. The ground team meets with him tonight. We suspect an invasion, at best. Blowing the city sky-high, at worst. We hover-park Starlight outside of the sensors' range, a team goes in to get Em's girl. We contact the ground team for an update while in the city."

"We?" Mitsuki doesn't like the sound of it.

"I'm going. Em needs to go, or she might not come with us. Noir will need to be at the wheel for immediate extraction. Flynt and Neon, be ready for heavy combat if it comes to that. Tiff. You're with me."

"Good." Tiff nods, arms crossed—probably ready to throw a fit if I side-line her. Which is exactly why I can't let her stay with Flynt and Neon; they're not strong enough to keep her safe if things heat up.

"I'm coming." Mitsuki steals into the co-pilot seat, glaring at me to dissuade my denying her.

Sigh. I engage the stealth, hoping to stay off the radar for as long as possible.

**_8-8_**

* * *

My earpiece slips in as I dial Noir.

**"Go' you."**

"How's the reception?"

**"Five by five. Will keep cha'er to a minimum."**

Starlight's door slides open. Em and Tiff dive out, head first. I grab Mitsuki and throw us out a after them.

The landscape is green, peaceful. The air cool, if considerably warmer than Mantle. Woolly clouds loaf about as the air whistles passed. I wrap Mitsuki in my aura, to guard us both as we hit the ground.

"On the ground." Looking up, Starlight's nowhere to be seen. Good. "Will keep you posted."

**"Roger."**

It's a peaceful walk. Just over two kilometres, so it doesn't take too long. The closer we get, the more obvious the signs of a nearby city. Guard posts manned by low-ranked Huntsmen, armed no doubt. Each takes notice of us, but simply hammer away at their scrolls—calling it in, no doubt.

The worn path leads up between two hills, at the base of the mountain. The official checkpoint isn't quite what I expected, barely more than an iron gate run between two wooden buildings. Six Huntsmen stand guard, one talking to a traveller that seems to be asking for directions.

"Welcome to Mistral." A Huntsman comes up to us, holding his hand out to tell us to slow down. He has some kind of modified bracers and a weapon's haft sticking up over his left shoulder. "State your business, please."

"Ivory DeWitt." I fish out my scroll and show I'm licenced. "My team and I wrapped up a hunt faster than anticipated. Em's from Mistral, so he's antsy to introduce us to his girl."

"Neon, 'ey." The man looks to Em. "Yeah. Janine's been bugging every Huntsman she can for news 'bout you."

"Tried calling, but…" Em fishes out his scroll, checking something. "Shit, we got reception." He holds up a finger to wordlessly ask for a moment as he strolls off to one side, no doubt calling her.

Sigh. "Young love."

The Huntsman chuckles. "I'll say. How long you plan on staying?"

"Meh?" I give an uncertain look. "Dunno. Might try to book passage to Argus. You know which way's cheaper?"

"Cheaper than walking?" The man chuckles. "Yeah. Argus Express. Station's in the upper levels. Neon knows the way."

I look over my shoulder at my teammate, busy talking to someone I can't identify with his back to us. "I'm sure. But, just in case he's stuck in the clouds…?"

The Huntsman crosses his arms, shaking his head with a face-splitting grin. "Sure thing. You take the express lift near the old market. Ask the conductor, they'll steer you right. And mind yourself in the lower levels. Rough crowd down here."

"We'll manage, but thanks all the same. Drinks're on me if you catch us in a bar. I'm sure you can predict where he's taking us."

"'Preciate it, but not my crowd. Go on in."

Someone's still talking, all relaxed and shit. "Yo, Em! We're leaving!"

"Yeah, we're coming now. See you in a bit."

**_8-8_**

* * *

Well. I used to wonder what Mantle would look like with tropical weather. I don't anymore. There's more green, you sweat your ass off in the shade, and the buildings are different. More conical, if not built right into the mountainside. The fasion's different—looks to be more kimonos and qipaos.

But that's where the differences end. The gangbangers are still working the corners. Shotcallers glare at us through the window panes. Gang crests mark buildings, neighbourhoods. And there are eyes watching our every move, looking for something to exploit.

Most notably, though, is how they either jerk back or their eyes gleam when they notice the DeWitt crest on our sashes. None dare approach us, of course, but I don't doubt the underbelly of society knows exactly who I am, and they're already plotting a way to profit on that—information dealing, most likely.

Em leads us into a busy market, but not the kind of market most like knowing exists. There's window panes with red lights and girls dancing around poles. Seedy-looking bars with most of the patrons bearing a tattoo of their gang's crest. And quite a few gangbangers try to flaunt their wares.

Mitsuki juts out her katana's grip, chasing them without so much as glancing their way. But that just gets the mill grinding harder. They know we've got the means—our gear, the DeWitt name, both hint at as much. So now they're likely trying to figure out what our poison is, and how to sell it to us first.

Em leads us into a particularly seedy bar, with some kind of spider marking it as a gang's lair. We head inside, finding dozens, if not hundreds, of gangbangers mulling about, each bearing the same mark.

Meh.

We walk up to the bar, and the bartender practically jumps over at Em. The clatter gets everyone's attention, but they don't make a move, not yet.

"Good to see you, baby girl." Em hugs whoever that is with all his might, pulling her over the bar and into his arms. "Come on, come on. Intros. Janine, my team. Ive, Tiff, Tsuki. Girls, Janine Brown."

Words are exchanged, but my attention is drawn to the shotcaller, eyeing my team.

"As I live and breathe." The woman smiles, eyes lit up and seeing nothing but Lien signs. "Princess Ivory DeWitt herself graces our humble establishment."

"Em!" Janine sounds panicked. "I told you not to bring her here."

Em chuckles. "You try telling her to sit this out. I dare you."

"What, pray tell, do you want with my barkeep?" the shotcaller asks.

I bow to her, walking over to deal with this efficiently. Two bouncer-types get in the way, but I simply phase through them, dragging Mitsuki along so she doesn't cause a scene.

"Is she marked?" I ask.

"Is that important?"

"It is." I unsheathe sword-Sun and slash her to the idiot trying to sneak up on me, holding her against his neck without breaking skin. "I'm being respectful. But if you touch me or mine, it won't last."

The shotcaller nods and tilts her head, the bouncers back off. Sun is sheathed quickly as drawn, and I take the seat opposite the woman.

"If she's not marked, she works off a debt. That debt must be paid before she leaves. If she is marked, her loyalty is to you and yours. As such, her being marked makes a great deal of difference."

"My my. So well versed in the matter." The woman smiles, with her eyes. "Very well. Yes. She pays off the debt for young Mr Neon there to attend Sanctum, and Beacon thereafter. Comes up to sixteen-thousand Lien, if you want her and her son." She has a son? Well, that's Em's issue to figure out.

I fish out a Lien card and my scroll, ensuring there's exactly twenty-thousand Lien on it, and let her see for herself, before sliding the card over to her.

"And the bonus is for…?"

"The surcharge you haven't decided on yet." I cock an eyebrow, not that she can see it with everything above my nose covered just now. "I figure it's just for the inconvenience. Or just because you can."

The shotcaller grins. "Well well. It isn't often I have someone that understands the way of things. Alright. Janine, you and yours are free to go."

Em goes with her behind the bar, into a room in the back. There's a girl washing dishes, looks to be pre-teens. A man working the stove. But the lovebirds pay neither of them any mind, heading into an office where Janine carefully hoists up a writhing little bundle. Six months old, from the look of it. Em's super nervous, Janine even more so as she explains how long she's been trying to tell him about his son—how sorry she is for not bringing it up sooner.

"Since I've got you here. Perhaps I can interest you in another debt?" So that's why she didn't take the card yet. Angling for another transaction.

"And the reason I care is…?"

The woman smirks. "Who knows. Bleeding hearts just aren't my thing, so I stopped trying to understand them." But clearly hasn't stopped trying to exploit them. She beckons to one of the bouncers, and he heads off towards the bar—the pre-teen, being my guess. "Her father had a sizable debt. Gambling, you see. Almost paid in full, but he went and got himself killed recently. I figure it's either sell her or put her to work. And really, she isn't good for much other than her looks. I'm sure you understand."

Prostitution. Cities may change, but the slums are always the same. "How much?"

"Outstanding is three-hundred." That little? That means she wants the bill paid, or she'd put the girl to work the streets purely to make an example out of her—shotcallers hate when people default on their debts, after all. "Surcharge puts you at a thirty."

Em comes with Janine and the baby. Once they and Tiff are near enough, I figure now's the better time.

"Just so we're clear. Janine and her son have not been accosted under your care, correct?"

Janine smiles, pressing a kiss to her baby's brow. Clearly not.

"Of course not. It's bad for my image."

I nod, taking back the card and adding the three-thousand to it, before sliding it right back to her. She takes the card, all smiles as the bouncer brings the girl over. Hymen's intact. Just barely budding her thimbles. Isn't bruised. Hands are cold from washing the dishes. Tattered rags, so she wasn't well-off even before coming here.

"Jade. Her Grace here is your master now. Serve her well."

I'm half-tempted to see if the woman knows about the shit about to go down, but…I can't take that risk, not now. Not with civilians we need to get out.

**_8-8_**

* * *

The lift takes us up while Tiff yammers away with Rose about 'meeting up for drinks'. The lift operator stays in her coach near the middle, her cat-like ears turning every which was as she hammers away at her scroll. The little spider on her neck hinting what that's about. Ms Shotcaller wants more details, not that I'm giving it to her.

Still, that leaves me with figuring out more shit than I planned on figuring out.

"You have enough?"

"Yeah. Need to stop at a place I know." Em comes over to me, holding his son protectively against his chest. We're over in a corner, well away from the Faunus and the edge, so we should be alright here. "Ive…I…"

"Had you told me, we'd have dealt with this sooner."

Em presses a dry kiss to his boy's head. "I'll pay y—"

I hold up my hand. "Raise the boy well, that's all I ask."

"Ivori, you mean?"

I jerk back.

"Janine. She named him Ivori, with an 'i' at the end."

Sigh. "That's going to get confusing."

Em snorts, devolving into chuckles, even as he holds his boy close to his heart to keep him safe. "Yeah. Especially if he takes after you."

Not going there. "You'll only need the basics. We'll get what we need when we get there."

"Yeah, uh…about that…?"

We are not talking about this right now. "We take care of our own." And I really don't need you harping on the what-ifs just now. "Now go on. I'm sure you two have a lot of catching up to do. And with a little luck, Starlight will be en route."

**"Starlight to Mistral Airport. We are holding outside of Mistral airspace. Requesting permission for pickup of Atlas Huntsman Team."**

**"Roger that, Starlight." **He gets an approach vector and reads it back.

Once he closes the channel, **"It's legi'. Hangar dee-four."** It tips our hand, of course, but we don't need civilians caught up in any of this, not when there's another option.

And this way there's no fucking grass stains on my ship.

"Ooh. Check it out, Ruby. It looks like Starlight's coming in. Lady Luck likes me."

**_8-8_**

* * *

The hangar is a bit cramped, but there isn't enough room for any kind of spy gear, so it's fine. Noir lowers the ramp for me as we approach, and we enter Starlight, clapping down a bunk for Janine and little Ive.

"Alright. Everyone. From now one, he's Ive, I'm Ivy. The last thing I need is developing a complex because everyone's calling us the same thing."

"Li'l Ive. I dig it." Flynt crosses his arms and flashes his little smile.

"Aw, isn't he just the cutest little thing." Neon is already fussing over him and Janine. "Can I hold him?"

"Me next." Mitsuki and Tiff want in on all the baby goo-goo. They're in good hands.

That means, I can figure out this whole Jade thing. I pull my hood back, taking a look at the girl I essentially bought.

My heart skips a beat. Several beats. Flat, lifeless hair reaches her shoulders. Silver hair. A nervous little smile, like she isn't sure what to make of us yet, but cautiously optimistic with how everyone fawns over li'l Ive. But it's her eyes. Yellow eyes. The nervous tension, bordering on fear. But…

She has mum's eyes.

That's why that shotcaller thought I'd be interested. Not the sob story, though that's what sold me—saving her from a life of indentured prostitution and all that. But, she likely knew I'd take one look at her and already claim her for my own.

My hand reaches out, shaking as I pinch her chin. She looks up at me, the fear in her eyes swelling, until she looks at me. Eyes widen, taking in my silvery crew cut, my violet eyes.

It's…it's almost comical. My family's hair, my mother's eyes, my cousin's name. Life has a sense of humour I'm utterly incapable of understanding. "What's your name?"

"Ja…" Wonder joins the awe as she tries to work her tongue. "Jade…Jade. Uh. Jade Wisteria."

"Jade." My lips curl up into an easy smile. "You are not a prisoner, not here. Do you have somewhere safe I can take you?"

Jade's shoulders relax, only for tears to well up in her eyes as she thinks about that. She looks away, hugging herself as she shakes her head almost microscopically, no.

Hand reaches out, cups her cheek, gently nudges her to look at me, to look to me. Frightened little eyes, the eyes of a girl that lost everything, peer up at me.

Whether I wish it is irrelevant. She steals my heart, and refuses to give it back. "If…if you want…you could stay with us?"

Teary eyes, golden as mid-winter's noon, they yearn for a place to belong, a place to call home, for someone to call family.

"If," I look away, cursing my foolish heart, "you want, that is."

"What…what would you have…have me do?"

She's too young, Ivory. She can't survive this world you find yourself in. She'll…she'll just die on you. Send her away! You can't take this risk, damn it!

And yet, my hand acts on its own, unholsters Moon and offers her to Jade, without magazine in bay and chamber empty. "I'd train you. Train you to survive. Train you to help me keep my people alive. But you have to want this." I spin Moon, offering her by the butt. "You have to want this so bad the thought of not taking my offer to train keeps you up at night."

Jade's eyes wander to my sash, to the sashes of the people around me—save Janine and she knows why she lacks one.

"I'll even throw in the bullshit etiquette and violin lessons I hated." I roll my eyes and add in a complete deadpan, "Torturously pink dresses included."

Jade giggles, her eyes lit up as her hand snaps up to cover her mouth.

"The choice is yours, and yours alone."

"I…" The yearning from earlier, it's back with a vengeance. Her hand lowers as she looks away, as if to hide the evidence. "Can…may I…?"

"Hmm?"

She tackles me, slow enough that I school my instincts to defend myself. Skinny little hands take two fistfuls of my jacket. "Just…just a little bit."

Her hair smells of the kitchen, of dishwashing detergent. Stringy and lifeless as my fingers comb through it, gently working through the knots.

She tries to pull back, already muttering apologies I can't make out. Every fibre of my being rejects the notion as I hold her a little tighter, a little closer, as I lay her ear against my chest.

A sigh, like a breath I held too long. Dry kiss presses against her sweaty brow. I'm going to regret this. I know I will. My brain screams profanities so loud I can barely think through the noise.

My heart doesn't care, won't let me care.

WrrrrrRRRRT!

Jade and I pull back from each other, eyes wide, cheeks warm. Apologies formulate, but our tongues don't manage the words.

"Sounds like some'un's 'ungry," Noir tease, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the cockpit doorway.

**_8-8_**

* * *

We enter the…abode, I guess I'd call it. It's a large apartment they rented in the upper levels of Mistral, away from the worst elements of the city. Spacious, lots of natural light cascading off the pastel stone walls. Cosy, I guess.

The sitting room has a coffee table in the centre, with two armchairs and a three-seater couch crowded around it. Rose beckons, leading us into the adjacent dining room, where the others await.

Xiao Long arm-wrestles with she-Hulk—it's hard to tell which is winning. Ninja-boy sits off to one side, by his lonesome, eyes closed and seemingly meditation. Team CVFY oils and cleans their gear, preparing to throw down. Schnee rolls her eyes as Xiao Long's arm comes loose and she-Hulk flops to the ground, freaking out at the now disembodied arm.

"Hey, guys?" No one even hears Rose over Valkyrie's freak out. "Look who I found!" Rose's bellowing draws all eyes our way. Eyes wide with surprise, grins wide with glee. It doesn't take more than a second before the group.

"Yo, Ive!" Xiao Long waves, her disembodied hand waves as well, causing Valkyrie to freak and toss the contraption up in the air.

"Finally." Adel catches the arm and tosses it to Xiao Long. "Some good news. What's the situation, DeWitt?"

Everyone turns to me. Per the usual.

"Is it…safe to talk?" I ask.

"It's…good to see you, Ms DeWitt." I turn, finding some farm boy with a perma-tan, arms crossed behind his back. Curiously, he carries Ozpin's can under his arm. But it's the tone, the refined eloquence that belies the humble upbringing.

"Professor Ozpin." I nod.

"It is, indeed, safe to talk. Please." He motions to the table, inviting us to sit. "What news do you bring?"

**_8-8_**

* * *

Eyes hard as steel, fists balled. Gears grinding as they process everything.

"We leave Mistral in an hour, but we'll stay close enough to step in the second things go south. Ironwood will have Nikos on long-range comms, to coordinate with the cavalry. We just need your teams to handle things until they arrive."

"Yes." Professor Ozpin pinches his chin, eyes glowing yellow as he goes over the plan. "That will work, though. I'm curious, Ms DeWitt. You didn't come all this way just to update us. And, you do keep curious company just now?"

My hand lands on Jade's shoulder as my eyes flicker to Em and Janine, fussing over li'l Ive as Em changes his nappy for the first time.

"Personal business we needed to tend to. Nothing more."

"I very much doubt that, Ivory." Oz chuckles, amused. "Ms Wisteria, was it?"

"Ah." Jade looks to me, confused. I nod and tilt him head to the boy that seems to be the leader just now. "Yes. Uh. Yes, Mr…Ozpin?"

"You have Iris's eyes."

Jade furrows her brow, failing at making sense of that.

"What's important," I cut in, "is that we need to be prepared for all possibilities. Ironwood's flagship is an hour away, but the Bullheads will be just on the border of Mistral airspace, as will we. It's close enough for me to snipe off some of the bigger Grimm, but not so close we don't risk friendly fire. When you're leaving for your meeting, you need to conference call each other and me."

I nod to Noir, who hands a box with earpieces around.

"If you connect these to your scrolls, you can keep in constant contact, while keeping it subtle. That means, Valkyrie, that you need to keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open."

"I'll have you know that I'm plenty subtle, thank you very much." She-Hulk crosses her amrs turning up her nose as she looks away. Yeah, I don't buy it.

"Hey, Ive!"

"Ooh. Yeah. Uh. Ivy." Em jumps in, sitting li'l Ive on the table in front of him. "You see. This little man here? He's Ive. That's Ivori with an 'i' at the end."

"Ohhhh-kay?" Xiao Long isn't sure what to make of that. No one is, really. Until they finally notice the wriggling little bundle he refers to, and they're all goo-goo for him, shock of pink hair, violet eyes and all. Why she chose 'Ivori' is something I'll never understand. Maybe it's her silv…shit. She has silver eyes.

"What? You never seen a baby before?" Em cocks an eyebrow, smirking.

"Right! Uh, Ive…y." Xiao Long needs a minute, it seems "Ivy. You mind loading Bumblebee for me? Keep her outta trouble while I rock the house." She punches her fists together, ready to crack skulls.

"Your brought your bike?" I glare. I built Bumblebee back in Signal, but Xiao Long got one ride and simply claimed her—didn't have the heart to turn her down with how blondie was glowing at the time. To be fair, I did sort of maybe have a crush on her at the time.

"Well, you…brought a baby." Xiao Long crosses her arms under her bust, flashing a smirk as if to dare me to contest that.

"Touché. Bring her to the hangar. And I'm not going to hear any complaints about the upgrades." There's just no way I'm going to entrust her upkeep to some mook in a garage somewhere.

"Ooh. Do I get a canon? Tell me I get a canon!" Blondie has stars in her eyes, already dreaming about the mayhem she can unleash.

"We'll see."

**_8-8_**

* * *

My scroll rings just as the sun sets over the mountains, bathing the countryside in unending shadows.

**"Team Ruby, sound off. Ruby here!"**

**"Hey, this is pretty cool."** Xiao Long's smile is more than obvious.

**"Would you keep the channel clear?"** Schnee gets on their cases, obviously far more accustomed to Atlas-styled ops.

**"Is this thing on? Hellooooo!"**

**"Nora. We hear you."**

**"Team Coffee. Coco here."**

One by one, the ground team test their mics and the connection. "Roger, ground team. We read you five by five."

**"Huh?"** Oh shit. She-Hulk strikes again. **"There's eleven of us down here. Don't you mean five by six?" **That level of stupid can't be cured.

**"Guys, keep it down."** Branwen gets on their cases. **"Ivy. We move in three minutes. Keep eyes on Haven for us."**

"Copy that ground team." I nod to Noir, and he eases Starlight into a slow approach, to test how close we can get before Mistral Airport picks us up—or worse, Haven. With my hood up, everything for kilometres around me is rendered in my mind. No increased Grimm activity, no curious spike in people activity.

Jade and Janine are cuddled up in one of the bunks, with li'l Ive snuggled between them.

Em, Tiff, Flynt, Neon, and Mitsuki are ready to roll, sticking close to the door for when I give the signal. Hopefully it won't be needed. I don't think we're ready for something this big, and I don't want to take the risk. If I have my way, we'll offer only long-range support.

A wall of pings looms ahead, made all the more obvious with pulses radiating out—radio waves, been my guess. We slip through, but radio chatter doesn't start up. Either they're having a coffee break, or someone took them out to allow for backup.

Scroll rings. A new call comes in. "Ih's Nikos. Add her?" I nod, and Noir adds her to the conference call.

"Starlight to Nikos. What's the situation? Over." I ask.

**"Pyrrha to Starlight. We have the city surrounded. Ready to move on your signal. Over."**

"Copy, Nikos. Ground team, the show's yours. Keep the channel open. Starlight, over and out."

**"Alright, let's move,"** Branwen announces. Eleven blue dots exit the apartment.

Hmm. There's a lot of activity in the lower levels, the slums. Can't tell who or what, but there weren't that many out and about during the day. Maybe they come out after the sun goes down? Too cold to dare try that in Mantle—even the hardiest gangbanger stays indoors at night, or at least in their car.

We make it to the security check point, if still a kilometre up. They still haven't spotted us. I'll chalk it up to good fortune, for now.

Ground team makes it to Haven's courtyard. They approach the main building, no doubt to see to the meeting. Curiously, there are six people inside waiting for them.

"Starlight to ground team. Got eight marks on your twelve. Over."

**"Schnee to Starlight. Need details. Over."**

I zoom in—it blinds me to the lower levels, but it brings Haven sharper into focus. "Male Faunus. Lion's mane. Bracer on left forearm. Female Human. One too many Lien cards on person, twinned revolver sickles. Male Human. Cybernetic legs, no other weapons. Male Human. No weapons, lots of dust crystals in hip pouches. Male Faunus. Scorpion's tail, retractable crescent blades attached to forearms. Female Human. Long Anima-style blade with revolver scabbard. Female Human. Closed umbrella in hand. Female Human. Crescent blades with pistols. Over."

**"Mom."** Xiao Long's mutter knits my brow, but I just don't know what to make of it.

Holy fuck! "We've got contact. Faunus bearing Grimm-styled masks are en route to your location. And they've got company. Faunus, not masks. Including one monkey Faunus with flintlock nun chucks and one Ms Belladonna. Reinforcements are early. Over and out."

And how fucking close are we? We're right a-fucking-top of Haven and they haven't spotted us? Fucking hell, they might as well toss all their gear out on its ass, or the teams meant to monitor them—and I can sense their ass in their fucking chairs, so I know they're not dead.

I tap Noir's shoulder and point up. He nods, pulling back on the wheel to take us up higher.

**"Ivy. Track a bull Faunus. Grimm-styled mask. Single blade kept on left hip. Name Adam Taurus. He's the White Fang Leader."**

"Copy that, sunshine. Need me to return the favour?"

**"With interest."**

What the fuck are those White Fang asshats doing? Are they planting explosives? Well, it's only in the upper levels just now, but…why is that sneaky-ass White Fang with a whip disarming all of them? Do I smell dissention in the ranks?

I zoom out as far as I can go without losing too much resolution, finding mob fucking chaos in the streets. Looks like the party already started, but something's wrong there too. Oh shit! I know that cocksucker. He was one of the bouncers in that shotcaller's bar. They're all dressed different from the people they engage, look more regal—which says a lot for the slums. Bandits, huh.

"Starlight to Nikos. I need boots on the ground in Mistral's lower levels. Bandits and gangbangers duke it out. Permission to engage. Have a solid team block off their retreat. Be mindful of Grimm attracted by the chaos. Over."

**"Pyrrha to Starlight. Understood. Six teams moving in, two teams will hold ground at southern checkpoint. Over."**

**"Raven! What's the meaning of this!"** Ah, fuck me. I'm not dealing with this and listening to a gods-damned soap opera.

"Starlight to Nikos. Ground team has made contact. All bombs are being disarmed. You have permission to engage, incapacitation only. Do not engage Faunus without Grimm masks. Repeat. Not all Faunus are hostiles. Engage those who wear Grimm masks only. Over."

**"Pyrrha to Starlight. Understood. All Mistral teams are moving in. Over."**

**"This is Mistral Tower to all unidentified Bullheads!"** Huh. So they just aren't seeing us. Interesting. "Unidentified Bullheads! You are entering sovereign territo—"

**"This is Bee-Ar-Fifty-Two. We are bringing in Mistral Huntsmen. Landing not required. Over."**

Each and every Bullhead, three dozen by my guess, do a flyby, raining Huntsmen on Mistral to put a swift end to the bullshit going down. Curiously, none see to Haven itself. Nikos's doing; protecting the people of Mistral takes precedence over the academy, after all.

The non-White Fang Faunus surround the White Fang shits. Ooh. It looks like we have ourselves a target.

Male Faunus. Muted bull horns, Grimm mask. Single blade sheathed on left hip. Detonator in hand, raised to draw attention to himself. A click, but nothing happens. The ninja-chameleon already disarmed all of them.

But.

I swat Noir and take control of Starlight, bringing her around and flicking up my hood—replaced with my sniper's mask.

Redhead asshole repeatedly clicking something in his hand. I load the Gatlings. Less than two-hundred metres—I could unman him at this distance and angle.

Three-toes turns, something catches his eye, but doesn't move. He's on guard. I load the canons, ice rounds. Every Faunus clears the area around him. Good.

"Hey, sunshine? Got a bull-cicle with your name on it." I fire both canons.

Taurus tries to slice the projectiles, but all he does is spread it more. Son'a'bitch gets a warm Mantle welcome, the entire area around him encased in ice, frozen solid. He'll suffocate before his aura even runs out.

"Good. Need some backup in here."

"EM! Noir. You have command." I phase through my seat, rushing down to the scene of the freaked out White Fang asses as they're surrounded. I pin my hood up, letting the scene around me render in my mind, so I don't miss a thing. I land, right on Taurus's glacier, glaring down through the ice at the top of his head. "Yang Xiao Long sends her love."

I backflip, unsheathe snake-Sun and phase her through the ice, cutting off both his arms at the shoulders, and just to be sure, I slash at him a third time, cutting off his legs at the knees. By the time my boots touch grass, my team drop down around me, brandishing their weapons and daring any cock nibblers to try anything.

Not missing a beat, I turn and march towards the main building, trading Sun for Foxtrot, and loading fire-grenades.

I aim for the doors, launch, and snipe the fucking grenade so the doors blow inwards.

If outside was chaotic, inside in hell incarnate.

Eyes turn to me. The assassin and the thief. I launch a fire grenade and snipe it, blowing the assassin back, right into Adel's melee range—she swings her purse like a good little old lady, snapping his spine on contact.

The scorpion shit bends over backwards, avoiding Branwen's scythe—his eyes on me. Oh?

"Well well. Who have we here?" The scorpion Faunus asks.

"That's Ivory DeWitt." Lioinheart squeals like a good little piggy. "The team with her, they bear her family crest. They're her honour guards."

"OZPIN!" The crazed and unarmed Human bellows, chasing after the newly incarnated Oz. Oh, this is a fucking circus.

**"Pyrrha to Starlight."** Wind howls over the connection. **"Dropping in on the party with more backup. What's your location?" **

"Haven. Main building. Bring your A-game."

The scorpion scurries my way, bent over backwards and walking on hands and feet. Still one of the fast I've faced.

Grenade mag drops and I kick it right at him while I fish out an icy mag and slap it in. Crazy son'a'bitch slices it, detonating the lot of them and blowing out support beams and sending his charred ass flying back, towards Branwen. The fuck is he doing, sleeping on the job.

Rose turns into a red bullet, literally flying at the scorpion and slicing his stinger off, before ricocheting off the wall and over towards Schnee, taking potshots at the thief while she's at it.

Adel and her bodyguard keep the thief hoping, so the little shit takes a few dings from Rose.

They're handled. The scorpion's pretty much down. I fire off the last fire grenade in the barrel, right at the scorpion—'pretty much' isn't handled, it's a loose end, but the hulking human with crystals stuck in his arms gets in the way. He takes the grenade to the face, and brushes off the flames. Power type, huh?

"Neon. Flynt."

"On it!" A rainbow dashes for the big ass bitch, but instead of going in for the kill, she peppers his dumb ass with pistol fire, while Flynt moves into position.

"Tiff! Valkyrie!" Em and Tiff rush off towards the struggling she-hulk, keeping the crazed umbrella bitch away from her ninja-boy.

I trade Foxtrot for Moon, slam an ice drum-mag in her ass, and unsheathe sword-Sun. This needs handling. Now.

"Someone order a pizza?" Arc asks, walking in ahead of Nikos. "Aw, come on! We charge extra for mopping up!"

I dash ahead, charging at the umbrella bitch. She peers my way over her shoulder, a little smile telling me she thinks she can handle me.

I veer off course, making a beeline for the downed and tailless scorpion. With the others entertained, I can pick off the stragglers.

Pouncing, snake-Sun lashes out, right for his fucking neck. He turns, eyes wide with perpetual madness, and raises his weapon to defend. Sword phases right through his defence, cutting clean through his wrist and bicep.

Moon fires. His other weapon tries to deflect, but the ice clings to him. Whatever psychosis he's in fades, fear takes over, and he just legs it. Right into Arc's swing—scorpion ducks under it and slides right passed Nikos's spear tip. A grenade explodes, freezing the escaping scorpion in place—Meadows looks too happy for words as the desert shit turns to fucking ice, leaving only his head outside the blast zone; the crazed laughter hints he's long passed losing his mind.

Good. Now the umbrella bitch.

A lift, that wasn't there before, comes up. Xiao long bears some kind of trinket, seems to have traded it for her arm. No, the assassin has her arm—well, Adel does, I suppose.

Blondie makes it up to our level, showing off her spoils. Looks like some kind of urn, or a lamp or something.

"Not again." The thief sounds about ready to freak the fuck out. "Not again, not again, not again." Good luck with that, pumpkin.

Moon sets on auto-fire, aims for the thief's face, and trigger pulls. The kleptomaniac's face snaps back, ice covering filling its every inch.

"Fall back!" Someone calls out. The giant, I think. Umbrella bitch jumps over Sun's swipe, and shatters into the ground. My seals don't pick render her anymore. At all. Not her heat signature, not her location, nothing. She's just…gone. And she seems to have taken the giant and the icicle with her, somehow.

I pull back my hood, finding my people alive. Injured, bruised, and in Schnee's case, bleeding. But alive.

Mitsuki rushes to my side, already checking me for injuries. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm f—"

She pulls my weapons right out of my hands, somehow knowing how to reel in snake-sun and shift her into sword-form and sheathing her for me. Moon's safety engages and she's holstered. Mitsuki takes her hands into hers, continuing her inspection.

This seems, for the most part, handled. "I need a fucking drink."

**_8-8_**

**_End Chapter Eight_**

**_8-8_**

**_End Volume Three_**

**_8-8_**

* * *

**_A/N: No, the effects of the last few chapters aren't forgotten, nor will they be. Ivory simply has little things to distract herself with. But, the next volume will be entirely dedicated to unpacking all of that. For better, or worse.  
_**

**_How will it unfold? You'll just have to wait and see._**


End file.
